or  Terse 


THE  LOVER'S  TREASURY  OF 
VERSE 


THE  HEART'S  AWAKENING. 
From  painting  by  W.  A.  Bouguereau. 


Selected  by 

John  White  Chadwick 

and 
Annie  Hathaway  Chadwick 


Editors  of  *V?  Treasury  of  Helpful  Verse,"  etc. 


L-C  PAGE-  &5- COMPANY 
BOSTONS  PUBLISHERS 


/• 


NOTE. 


IT  is  not  without  regret  that  we  have  omitted  from 
our  selection  many  beautiful  examples  in  this  kind 
which  have  the  rank  of  classics  in  the  lyric  art.  We 
have  done  it  because  they  are  so  generally  known  and 
so  easily  accessible,  especially  in  Palgrave's  "  Golden 
Treasury," — the  best  of  all  anthologies.  But  we  could 
not  deny  ourselves  a  few  of  these,  nor  a  few  of  Shak- 
spere's  sonnets,  where  we  craved  a  double  score.  We 
trust  that  our  selection  has  the  merits  of  freshness  and 
genuine  feeling  and  true  poetry  in  the  main.  If  per- 
sonal considerations  have  included  some  not  equal  to 
these  standards,  the  indulgence  of  the  reader  for  them 
is  herewith  desired.  Our  deliberate  gleanings,  though 
near  and  far,  have  yielded  us  few  poems  in  comparison 
with  our  happy  memories  of  much-loved  things.  The 
little  we  have  trenched  on  previous  anthologies  is  justi- 
fied by  the  lover's  right  of  eminent  domain. 

While  giving  authors'  names  in  full  in  the  table  of 
contents,  we  have  with  the  separate  poems  sometimes 
used  other  forms  when  they  have  a  more  familiar 
sound.  Our  gratitude  is  due,  and  is  hereby  expressed, 
for  the  kindness  of  many  authors  and  publishers  in 
allowing  us  the  use  of  their  poems  and  their  pub- 
lications: to  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  the  poems 
of  Eugene  Field  and  Mrs.  Mary  Mapes  Dodge;  to 
Roberts  Brothers  for  Emily  Dickinson's  and  many 
others  ;  and  especially  to  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.,  on 
whose  editions  of  various  poets,  both  American  and 
English,  we  have  drawn  with  no  illiberal  hand. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


PAGE 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY 

Palabras  Carinosas ,    «    .    .    .  10 

Who  know  not  Love 115 

ALIGHIERI,  DANTK 

His  Lady's  Praise 49 

Her  Helpfulness 113 

ANONYMOUS. 

Lovers 34 

To  a  Girl 61 

Unkind  Words 125 

Sun  and  Rain 127 

Home  Song 128 

Which? 153 

Love  and  Death 162 

ARNOLD,  MATTHEW 

Excuse 165 

BARTLETT,  MARY  C. 

Baby's  Skies 132 

BEDDOES,  THOMAS  LOVELL 

How  Many  Times  ? 44 


Vlii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACT 

BOCCACCIO, 

Of  Three  Girls  and  their  Talk 40 

BROOKE,  STOPFORD 

At  Last 106 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT 

Fulness  of  Love 8 

The  Ways  of  Love 57 

Far  and  yet  Near 59 

First,  second,  third 73 

Love  for  Love's  Sake 103 

BROWNING,  ROBERT 

Summum  Bonum •     .     .  2 

The  Moth's  Kiss  first 21 

Life  in  a  Love 22 

Love  in  a  Life 24 

A  Pearl  —  A  Girl 29 

My  Star 35 

In  Three  Days 68 

Her  Perfect  Praise 73 

Garden  Fancies.     The  Flower's  Name 84 

To  E.  B.  B 106 

Speculative 113 

BUONARROTTI,    MlCHAEL  ANGELO 

In  Love's  own  Time 84 

Love's  Justification 88 

Ideal  Love 104 

CALTHROP,  SAMUEL  ROBERT 

Where  Baby  Joy  comes  from 140 

CHADWICK,  JOHN  WHITE 

Starlight 20 

Fate 37 

A  Wedding  Song 122 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  IX 

PACK 

The  Oldest  Story 128 

In  an  Unknown  Tongue 133 

New  House  :  Old  Home 168 

Tete-a-Tete 173 

CLARKE,  JAMES  FREEMAN 

The  Difficulty 42 

Love  doth  to  her  Eyes  repair 46 

A  Reminiscence ••••  102 

CLARKE,  LILIAN 

Wer  wenig  sucht,  der  findet  viel 5 

(Translated  from  Riickert.) 

CRAIK,  DINAH  MULOCK 

Mine 52 

Letticc 105 

DANIEL,  SAMUEL 

Early  Love     ••••••••••••••«  31 

DESBORDES-VALMORE,  MADAME 

Parted 112 

DICKINSON,  EMILY 

Have  you  got  a  Brook  in  your  Little  Heart  ?    .     .    .    .  51 

If  you  were  coming  in  the  Fall 69 

No  Time  to  hate 99 

The  First  Lesson 114 

The  Daisy  follows  soft  the  Sun 180 

DODGE,  MARY  MAPES 

Umpires 66 

DRAYTON,  MICHAEL 

Sonnet  . ,  98 

ELIOT,  GEORGE  (MARIAN  EVANS  CROSS) 

Brother  and  Sister 162 

Two  Lovers 175 


X  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACT 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO 

Eros I 

The  Amulet 25 

Friendship 165 

FIELD,  EUGENE 

Some  Time 139 

Our  Two  Opinions 167 

GANNETT,  WILLIAM  CHANNING 

The  Old  Love  Song 158 

In  Twos 176 

GILDER,  RICHARD  WATSON 

Oh,  Love  is  not  a  Summer  Mood I 

I  count  my  Times  by  Times  that  I  meet  thee  ....  4 

Song 16 

My  Love  for  thee  doth  march  like  Armed  Men     ...  56 

Love  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee  ....  70 

At  Four-score 170 

GOODALE,  ELAINE 

Mother 133 

Baby ,  137 

HENLEY,  WILLIAM  ERNEST 

With  Strawberries j    .    •  3 

A  Pleasant  Song .    .    .  55 

In  the  Year  that 's  come  and  gone       .......  57 

By  the  Swinging  Seas •    •    •  60 

When  you  are  old ,...  •    •  103 

HERRICK,  ROBERT 

To  the  Virgins  to  make  much  of  Time    .......  71 

Upon  Julia's  Clothes 9* 

A  Grace  for  a  Child >43 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xi 

FAGB 

HIGGINSON,  MRS.  THOMAS  WENTWORTH 

The  Playmate  Hours 137 

HIGGINSON,  THOMAS  WENTWORTH 

Sonnet  from  Petrarch  ............      74 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL 

The  Old  Man  dreams 178 

HOOD,  THOMAS 

Ruth 43 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN 

Caprice 62 

Before  the  Gate       82 

HUNT,  JAMES  HENRY  LEIGH 

Jenny  kissed  me 98 

An  Angel  in  the  House    ...........     119 

HUTCHINSON,  ELLEN  MACKAY 

Priscilla 50 

JACKSON,  HELEN  HUNT 

Two  Truths 125 

Morning-glory 146 

JONES,  ROBERT  (ELIZABETHAN  SONG  BOOK) 

When  Love  most  secret  is if 

An  Old  Lover , 32 

KEATS,  JOHN 

Happy  Insensibility 18 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES 

Home  Comfort 153 

LELAND,  CHARLES  GODFREY  (ANGLO-ROMANY  SONGS) 

Romany  Song 27 


xii  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 
LOCKER-LAMPSON,  FREDERICK 

A  Nice  Correspondent n 

St.  George's,  Hanover  Square 64 

A  Rhyme  of  One 135 

Baby  mine 149 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH 

The  Children's  Hour 143 

The  Golden  Mile-stone 152 

Holidays 159 

LONGFELLOW,  SAMUEL 

To  a  Daughter  on  her  Marriage 119 

LOVELACE,  RICHARD 

To  Lucasta 91 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL 

The  Protest 13 

Agro-Dolce 62 

The  Pregnant  Comment 71 

A  Foreboding 89 

Telepathy 92 

MACDONALD,  GEORGE 

Like  a  Little  Child 150 

MARQUIS  OF  MONTROSE 

I  '11  never  love  Thee  more 93 

McKAY,  JAMES  T. 

The  Whispering  Gallery 39 

MILNES,  RICHARD  MONCKTON  (LORD  HOUGHTON) 

The  Brook-side 87 

OSGOOD,  KATE  PUTNAM 

What  else? 30 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  xiil 

PACK 
PALGRAVE,  FRANCIS  TURNER 

To  a  Child 152 

PATMORE,  COVENTRY 

The  Queen 6 

Night  Thoughts 90 

Love  ceremonious 94 

The  Paradox no 

The  Toys 145 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES 

My  Love 93 

PERRY,  CARLOTTA 

Love's  Meaning 15 

PERRY,  NORA 

Riding  down 25 

Some  Day  of  Days 109 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH 

The  Newly  Wedded 121 

Sketch  of  a  Young  Lady  Five  Months  old 130 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE 

A  Woman's  Answer 100 

RAND,  WILLIAM  BRIGHTY 

The  Happy  Child 148 

RILEY,  JAMES  WHITCOMB 

When  she  comes  home 124 

ROSSETTI,  CHRISTINA  GEORGINA 

The  First  Meeting a 

A  Ring  Posy 55 

The  Good  Sister      ....                                           ,  161 


XIV  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PAGE 
ROSSETTI,  DANTE  GABRIEL 

Silent  Noon n 

The  Love  Letter 65 

SAVARY,  JOHN 

A  Wedding  Song 120 

SHAKSPERE,  WILLIAM 

The  Garden  of  Love 4 

My  Music 19 

•»   Amor  omnia  vincit 31 

Ann  Hathaway 36 

True  Love 86 

The  Lover's  Night  Thoughts 89 

The  Course  of  Love 107 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE 

One  Word  is  too  often  profaned     ........  46 

SIDNEY,  SIR  PHILIP 

A  Nobler  Exercise 20 

Ditty 53 

SILL,  EDWARD  ROWLAND 

Eve's  Daughter 64 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE 

Toujours  Amour 33 

The  Doorstep 80 

A  Mother's  Picture 147 

Laura  my  Darling 156 

Betrothed  anew 160 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  Louis 

The  Difference 54 

With  a  Hand-Glass 91 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS.  XV 

PAOL 
STORY,  WILLIAM  WETMORK 

Love  and  Prudence ....•  24 

Love 28 

Un  Bacio  dato  non  e  mai  perduto 78 

O  Filia  pulchra ! 95 

SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES 

Kissing  her  Hair 45 

SYLVESTER,  JOSHUA 

Love's  Omnipresence  .........•••  40 

SYMONDS,  JOHN  ADDINGTON 

A  Mystery 41 

TENNYSON,  ALFRED  LORD 

From  Maud 14 

The  Woman's  Cause 16 

At  Life's  best 22 

Ask  me  no  more 44 

Summer  is  coming 66 

The  Letters 96 

Song 107 

The  Wedding-day 115 

The  Day-dream  —  The  Departure 123 

From  the  Miller's  Daughter 141 

THACKERAY,  WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE 

At  the  Church  Gate g 

TURNER,  ELIZA  SPROAT 

All  Mother 142 

Compensation •    •••••..  150 

WASSON,  DAVID  ATWOOD 

Love  against  Love  .............  7 

Love's  Victory 58 


XVI  INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 

PACK 
WEBB,  CHARLES  HENRY 

Last  Night  in  blue  my  Little  Love  was  dressed    .     .    .      61 
WEBSTER,  AUGUSTA 

The  Happiest  Girl  in  the  World     .......      ,      47 

WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF 

Amy  Wentworth     ......    ...••-.      75 

WRIGHT,  MERLE  ST.  CROIX 

38 


Translation  from  Heine 
Cradle  Song  .... 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


THE  HEART'S  AWAKENING.  Bouguereau  Frontis. 
SPRINGTIME  OF  LOVE.  Thumann  .  .  30 
MENU  DE  L'AMOUR.  Aubert  ...  44 
FOND  RECOLLECTIONS.  Niczky  ...  66 
FIRST  WORDS  OF  LOVE.  Perugini  .  .104 
LOVE  AND  INNOCENCE.  Perrault  .  .128 

LOVE  WINS.    Aubert 136 

WOODLAND  Vows.    Beyschlag       .        .        .176 


THE   LOVER'S  TREASURY  OF 
VERSE 


EROS. 

HE  sense  of  the  world  is  short,  — 
Long  and  various  the  report,  — 

To  love  and  be  beloved ; 

Men  and  gods  have  not  outlearned  it ; 

And,  how  oft  soe'er  they  Ve  turned  it, 

'T  is  not  to  be  improved. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


OH,  LOVE  IS  NOT   A   SUMMER   MOOD." 

OH,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood, 
Nor  flying  phantom  of  the  brain, 
Nor  youthful  fever  of  the  blood, 
Nor  dream,  nor  fate,  nor  circumstance. 
Love  is  not  born  of  blinded  chance, 
Nor  bred  in  simple  ignorance. 

Love  is  the  flower  of  maidenhood ; 
Love  is  the  fruit  of  mortal  pain ; 
And  she  hath  winter  in  her  blood. 
i 


2  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

True  love  is  steadfast  as  the  skies, 
And  once  alight  she  never  flies ; 
And  love  is  strong,  and  love  is  wise. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE   FIRST  MEETING. 

T  WISH  I  could  remember  that  first  day, 

First  hour,  first  moment  of  your  meeting  me, 
If  bright  or  dim  the  season,  it  might  be 

Summer  or  winter  for  aught  I  can  say ; 

So  unrecorded  did  it  slip  away, 

So  blind  was  I  to  see  and  to  foresee, 
So  dull  to  mark  the  budding  of  my  tree 

That  would  not  blossom  yet  for  many  a  May. 

If  only  I  could  recollect  it  —  such 
A  day  of  days  !     I  let  it  come  and  go 
As  traceless  as  a  thaw  of  bygone  snow ; 

It  seemed  to  mean  so  little,  meant  so  much ; 

If  only  now  I  could  recall  that  touch, 
First  touch  of  hand  in  hand  —  did  one  but  know  ! 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


SUMMUM   BONUM. 

ALL  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the 
bag  of  one  bee : 

All  the  wonder  and  wealth  of  the  mine  in  the  heart 
of  one  gem : 


WITH  STRA  WBERRIES.  3 

In  the  core  of  one  pearl  all  the  shade  and  the  shine 

of  the  sea : 

Breath  and  bloom,  shade  and  shine,— wonder,  wealth, 
and  —  how  far  above  them  — 

Truth,  that's  brighter  than  gem, 
Trust,  that 's  purer  than  pearl,  — 
Brightest  truth,  purest  trust  in  the  universe  —  all  were 
for  me 

In  the  kiss  of  one  girl. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


WITH   STRAWBERRIES. 

WITH  strawberries  we  filled  a  tray, 
And  then  we  drove  away,  away 
Along  the  links  beside  the  sea, 
Where  wave  and  wind  were  light  and  free, 
And  August  felt  as  fresh  as  May. 

And  where  the  springy  turf  was  gay 
With  thyme  and  balm  and  many  a  spray 
Of  wild  roses,  you  tempted  me 

With  strawberries. 

A  shadowy  sail,  silent  and  gray, 
Stole  like  a  ghost  across  the  bay ; 
But  none  could  hear  me  ask  my  fee, 
And  none  could  know  what  came  to  be. 
Can  sweethearts  all  their  thirst  allay 

With  strawberries  ? 
WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE  GARDEN   OF  LOVE. 

FROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
When  proud-pied  April  dress'd  in  all  his  trim 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  everything, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lay  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue, 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew ; 
Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 


"I   COUNT  MY  TIMES   BY  TIMES  THAT   I 
MEET   THEE." 

I  COUNT  my  times  by  times  that  I  meet  thee ; 
These  are  my  yesterdays,  my  morrows,  noons 
And  nights ;  these  my  old  moons  and  my  new  moons. 
Slow  fly  the  hours,  or  fast  the  hours  do  flee, 
If  thou  art  far  from  or  art  near  to  me : 
If  thou  art  far,  the  birds'  tunes  are  no  tunes ; 
If  thou  art  near,  the  wintry  days  are  Junes,  — 
Darkness  is  light,  and  sorrow  cannot  be. 


WER   WE  NIG  SUCHT,  ETC.  5 

Thou  art  my  dream  come  true,  and  thou  my  dream, 

The  air  I  breathe,  the  world  wherein  I  dwell ; 

My  journey's  end  thou  art,  and  thou  the  way ; 
Thou  art  what  I  would  be,  yet  only  seem ; 

Thou  art  my  heaven  and  thou  art  my  hell ; 

Thou  art  my  ever-living  judgment  day. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


WER  WENIG   SUCHT,  DER   FINDET  VIEL. 

Translated  from  Riickert. 

ONLY  a  shelter  for  my  head  I  sought, 
One  stormy  winter  night ; 
To  me  the  blessing  of  my  life  was  brought, 

Making  the  whole  world  bright. 
How  shall  I  thank  thee  for  a  gift  so  sweet, 

O  dearest  Heavenly  Friend  ? 
I  sought  a  resting-place  for  weary  feet, 
And  found  my  journey's  end. 

Only  the  latchet  of  a  friendly  door 

My  timid  fingers  tried ; 
A  loving  heart,  with  all  its  precious  store, 

To  me  was  opened  wide. 
I  asked  for  shelter  from  a  passing  shower,  — 

My  sun  shall  always  shine ! 
I  would  have  sat  beside  the  hearth  an  hour,  — 

And  the  whole  heart  was  mine ! 

LILIAN  CLARKE. 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE   QUEEN. 

TO  heroism  and  holiness 
How  hard  it  is  for  man  to  soar, 
But  how  much  harder  to  be  less 

Than  what  his  mistress  loves  him  for! 
He  does  with  ease  what  do  he  must, 

Or  lose  her,  and  there 's  nought  debarr'd 
From  him  who 's  call'd  to  meet  her  trust, 

And  credit  her  desired  regard. 
Ah,  wasteful  woman,  she  that  may 

On  her  sweet  self  set  her  own  price, 
Knowing  he  cannot  choose  but  pay, 

How  has  she  cheapen'd  paradise ; 
How  given  for  nought  her  priceless  gift, 

How  spoil'd  the  bread  and  spill'd  the  wine, 
Which  spent  with  due,  respective  thrift, 

Had  made  brutes  men,  and  men  divine ! 

0  Queen,  awake  to  thy  renown, 
Require  what  't  is  our  wealth  to  give, 

And  comprehend  and  wear  the  crown 
Of  thy  despised  prerogative ! 

1  who  in  manhood's  name  at  length 
With  glad  songs  come  to  abdicate 

The  gross  regality  of  strength, 
Must  yet  in  this  thy  praise  abate, 

That  through  thine  erring  humbleness 
And  disregard  of  thy  degree, 


LOVE  AGAINST  LOVE. 

Mainly,  has  man  been  so  much  less 

Than  fits  his  fellowship  with  thee. 
High  thoughts  had  shaped  the  foolish  brow, 

The  coward  had  grasp'd  the  hero's  sword, 
The  vilest  had  been  great,  hadst  thou, 

Just  to  thyself,  been  worth's  reward : 
3ut  lofty  honours  undersold 

Seller  and  buyer  both  disgrace  ; 
And  favour  that  makes  folly  bold 

Puts  out  the  light  in  virtue's  face. 

COVENTRY  PATMORK. 


LOVE  AGAINST   LOVE. 

AS  unto  blowing  roses  summer  dews, 
Or  morning's  amber  to  the  tree-top  choirs, 
So  to  my  bosom  are  the  beams  that  use 

To  rain  on  me  from  eyes  that  love  inspires. 
Your  love,  vouchsafe  it,  royal-hearted  few, 

And  I  will  set  no  common  price  thereon ; 
Oh  !  I  will  keep  as  heaven  its  holy  blue, 

Or  night  her  diamonds,  that  dear  treasure  won. 
But  aught  of  inward  faith  must  I  forego, 

Or  miss  one  drop  from  Truth's  baptismal  hand, 
Think  poorer  thoughts,  pray  cheaper  prayers,  and  grow 

Less  worthy  trust,  to  meet  your  heart's  demand  ? 
Farewell !     Your  wish  I  for  your  sake  deny ; 
Rebel  to  love  in  truth  to  love  am  I. 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


FULNESS   OF  LOVE. 

IF  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing,  and  the  common  kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange, 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors,  .  .  .  another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to  know  change  ? 
That 's  hardest !     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief  tries  more  ...  as  all  things  prove, 
For  grief  indeed  is  love  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love  — 
Yet  love  me  —  wilt  thou  ?     Open  thine  heart  wide, 
And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

A  LTHOUGH  I  enter  not, 
•**-    Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover: 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 


AT  THE  CHURCH  GATE. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming : 
They  Ve  hushed  the  Minster  bell : 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She 's  coming,  she 's  coming ! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid,  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  downcast : 
She  comes  —  she 's  here  —  she 's  past  — 

May  Heaven  go  with  her ! 

Kneel,  undisturb'd,  fair  Saint ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly; 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 

WILLIAM  M.  THACKERAY. 


IO  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

PALABRAS   CARINOSAS. 

SPANISH  AIR. 

GOOD-NIGHT  !  I  have  to  say  good-night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  uplifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there  — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again ! 

But  there  will  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this  porch 

With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good-night! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago  — 
What,  both  these  snowy  hands !    Ah,  then 
I  '11  have  to  say  Good-night  again  ! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


A  NICE  CORRESPONDENT.  II 


SILENT   NOON. 

\7OUR  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, — 
-*•     The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms : 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.      The  pasture  gleams  and 

glooms 

Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 
All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass, 
Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn-hedge. 
'T  is  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the  sky :  — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh !  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

DANTE  G.  ROSSETTI. 


A  NICE   CORRESPONDENT. 

THE  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted 
To  darkness,  for  evening  is  come  ; 
The  lamp  in  Glebe  Cottage  is  lighted, 

The  birds  and  the  sheep-bells  are  dumb. 
I  'm  alone,  for  the  others  have  flitted 

To  dine  with  a  neighbor  at  Kew ; 
Alone,  but  I  'm  not  to  be  pitied  — 

I  'm  thinking  of  you  I 


12  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

I  wish  you  were  here !    Were  I  duller 
Than  dull,  you  'd  be  dearer  than  dear; 

I  am  drest  in  your  favourite  colour  — 
Dear  Fred,  how  I  wish  you  were  here ! 

I  am  wearing  my  lazuli  necklace,  — 
The  necklace  you  fastened  askew ! 

Was  there  ever  so  rude  and  so  reckless 
A  darling  as  you  ? 

I  want  you  to  come  and  pass  sentence 
On  two  or  three  books  with  a  plot; 

Of  course  you  know  "  Janet's  Repentance  "  ? 
I  'm  reading  Sir  Waver ly  Scott, 

That  story  of  Edgar  and  Lucy, 
How  thrilling,  romantic,  and  true  ! 

The  Master  (his  bride  was  a  goosey  /) 
Reminds  me  of  you. 

They  tell  me  Cockaigne  has  been  crowning 
A  Poet  whose  garland  endures ;  — 

It  was  you  who  first  spouted  me  Browning,  — 
That  stupid  old  Browning  of  yours  ! 

His  vogue  and  his  verve  are  alarming, 
I  'm  anxious  to  give  him  his  due, 

But,  Fred,  he 's  not  nearly  so  charming 
A  poet  as  you. 

I  heard  how  you  shot  at  the  Beeches, 
I  saw  how  you  rode  Chanticleer, 

I  have  read  the  report  of  your  speeches, 
And  echo'd  the  echoing  cheer : 


THE  PROTEST.  13 

There 's  a  whisper  of  hearts  you  are  breaking, 

Dear  Fred,  I  believe  it,  I  do ! 
Small  marvel  that  Fashion  is  making 
Her  idol  of  you ! 

Alas  for  the  world,  and  its  dearly 

Bought  triumph,  its  fugitive  bliss ; 
Sometimes  I  half  wish  I  were  merely 

A  plain  or  a  penniless  miss  ; 
But  perhaps  one  is  best  with  "  a  measure 

Of  pelf,"  and  I  'm  not  sorry,  too, 
That  I  'm  pretty,  because  it 's  a  pleasure, 
My  darling,  to  you  ! 

Your  whim  is  for  frolic  and  fashion, 

Your  taste  is  for  letters  and  art ;  — 
This  rhyme  is  the  common-place  passion 

That  glows  in  a  fond  woman's  heart : 
Lay  it  by  in  some  sacred  deposit 
For  relics  —  we  all  have  a  few ! 
Love,  some  day  they  '11  print  it,  because  it 
Was  written  to  you. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


THE  PROTEST. 

I  COULD  not  bear  to  see  those  eyes 
On  all  with  wasteful  largesse  shine, 
And  that  delight  of  welcome  rise 
Like  sunshine  strained  through  amber  wine, 


14  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

But  that  a  glow  from  deeper  skies, 
From  conscious  fountains  more  divine, 
Is  (is  it  ?)  mine. 

Be  beautiful  to  all  mankind, 
As  nature  fashioned  thee  to  be ; 
'T  would  anger  me  did  all  not  find 
The  sweet  perfection  that 's  in  thee : 
Yet  keep  one  charm  of  charms  behind,  — 
Nay,  thou  'rt  so  rich,  keep  two  or  three 
For  (is  it?)  me! 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


FROM   "MAUD." 

QUEEN  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 
In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 

Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 
Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  splendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fete ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  "  She  is  near,  she  is  near ; " 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  "  She  is  late  j " 
The  larkspur  listens,  "  I  hear,  I  hear ; " 

And  the  lily  whispers,  "  I  wait." 


LOVE'S  MEANING.  15 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


LOVE'S   MEANING. 

I  THOUGHT  it  meant  all  glad  ecstatic  things,  — 
Fond  glance  and  touch  and  speech,  quick  blood 

and  brain, 

And  strong  desire,  and  keen,  delicious  pain, 
And  beauty's  thrall,  and  strange  bewilderings 
Twixt  hope  and  fear,  like  to  the  little  stings 
The  rose-thorn  gives,  and  then  the  utter  gain  — 
Worth  all  my  sorest  strivings  to  attain  — 
Of  the  dear  bliss  long-sought  possession  gives. 

Now  with  a  sad,  clear  sight  that  reassures 
My  often  sinking  soul,  with  longing  eyes 

Averted  from  the  path  that  still  allures, 

Lest,  seeing  that  for  which  my  sore  heart  sighs, 

I  seek  my  own  good  at  the  cost  of  yours,  — 
I  know  at  last  that  love  means  sacrifice. 

CARLOTTA  PERRY. 


16  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


SONG. 

NOT  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee  — 
Sweetheart,  light  of  the  land  and  the  sea ! 
The  wide,  wide  world  could  not  inclose  thee, 
For  thou  art  the  whole  wide  world  to  me. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE  WOMAN'S   CAUSE. 

THE  woman's  cause  is  man's  :  they  rise  or  sink 
Together,  dwarfed  or  godlike,  bond  or  free : 
For  she  that  out  of  Lethe  scales  with  man 
The  shining  steps  of  Nature,  shares  with  man 
His  nights,  his  days,  moves  with  him  to  one  goal, 
Stays  all  the  fair  young  planet  in  her  hands  — 
If  she  be  small,  slight -natured,  miserable, 
How  shall  men  grow  ?    But  work  no  more  alone  ! 
Our  place  is  much ;  as  far  as  in  us  lies 
We  two  will  serve  them  both  in  aiding  her,  — 
Will  clear  away  the  parasitic  forms 
That  seem  to  keep  her  up,  but  drag  her  down; 
Will  leave  her  space  to  burgeon  out  of  all 
Within  her,  —  let  her  make  herself  her  own 
To  give  or  keep,  to  live  and  learn  and  be 
All  that  not  harms  distinctive  womanhood. 
For  woman  is  not  undeveloped  man, 
But  diverse :  could  we  make  her  as  the  man, 
Sweet  love  were  slain ;  his  dearest  bond  is  this, 


WHEN  LOVE  MOST  SECRET  /S.  IJ 

Not  like  to  like,  but  like  in  difference : 

Yet  in  the  long  years  liker  must  they  grow; 

The  man  be  more  of  woman,  she  of  man ; 

He  gain  in  sweetness  and  in  moral  height, 

Nor  lose  the  wrestling  thews  that  throw  the  world; 

She  mental  breadth,  nor  fail  in  childward  care, 

Nor  lose  the  childlike  in  the  larger  mind; 

Till  at  the  last  she  set  herself  to  man, 

Like  perfect  music  unto  noble  words ; 

And  so  these  twain,  upon  the  skirts  of  Time, 

Sit  side  by  side,  full-summed  in  all  their  powers, 

Dispensing  harvest,  sowing  the  To-be, 

Self-reverent  each,  and  reverencing  each, 

Distinct  in  individualities, 

But  like  each  other  even  as  those  who  love. 

Then  comes  the  statelier  Eden  back  to  men ; 

Then  reign  the  world's  great  bridals,  chaste  and  calm ; 

Th'en  springs  the  crowning  race  of  humankind. 

May  these  things  be ! 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


WHEN   LOVE   MOST   SECRET   IS. 

THE  fountains   smoke,  and   yet    no  flames  they 
show ; 

Stars  shine  by  night,  though  undiscerned  by  day ; 
And  trees  do  spring,  yet  are  not  seen  to  grow ; 

And  shadows  move,  although  they  seem  to  stay  : 
In  Winter's  woe  is  buried  Summer's  bliss, 
And  Love  loves  most  when  love  most  secret  is. 

2 


1 8  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  stillest  streams  descry  the  greatest  deep ; 

The  clearest  sky  is  subject  to  a  shower ; 
Conceit 's  most  sweet  whenas  it  seems  to  sleep, 

And  fairest  days  do  in  the  morning  lower: 
The  silent  groves  sweet  nymphs  they  cannot  miss, 
For  Love  loves  most  when  love  most  secret  is. 

The  rarest  jewels  hidden  virtue  yield ; 

The  sweet  of  traffic  is  a  secret  gain ; 
The  year  once  old  doth  show  a  barren  field ; 

And  plants  seem  dead,  and  yet  they  spring  again : 
Cupid  is  blind ;  the  reason  why  is  this,  — 
Love  loveth  most  when  love  most  secret  is. 

ROBERT  JONES  :  Elizabethan  Song  Book. 


HAPPY   INSENSIBILITY. 

IN  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  Tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity ; 
The  north  cannot  undo  them 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them, 
Nor  frozen  tha wings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  Brook, 

Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look ; 


MY  MUSIC.  19 

But  with  a  sweet  forgetting 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah,  would  't  were  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it. 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it,  — 

Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

JOHN  KEATS. 

MY  MUSIC. 

HOW  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st, 
Upon  that  blessed  wood  whose  motion  sounds 
With  thy  sweet  fingers,  when  thou  gently  sway'st 
The  wiry  concord  that  mine  ear  confounds, 
Do  I  envy  those  jacks  that  nimble  leap 
To  kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand, 
Whilst  my  poor  lips,  which  should  that  harvest  reap, 
At  the  wood's  boldness  by  thee  blushing  stand  ! 
To  be  so  tickled,  they  would  change  their  state 
And  situation  with  those  dancing  chips, 
O'er  whom  thy  fingers  walk  with  gentle  gait, 
Making  dead  wood  more  blest  than  living  lips. 
Since  saucy  jacks  so  happy  are  in  this, 
Give  them  thy  fingers,  me  thy  lips  to  kiss. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPER& 


20  OUT  OP  THE  HEART. 


STARLIGHT. 

"  T    OOK  up,"  she  said;  and  all  the  heavens  blazed 

J— '    With  countless  myriads  of  quiet  stars, 
Whereon  a  moment  silently  he  gazed, 
And  drank  that  peace  no  trouble  ever  mars. 
Then  looking  down  into  her  face  upturned, 
Two  other  stars  that  did  outshine  the  rest 
Upward  to  him  with  such  soft  splendor  yearned 
That  all  her  secret  was  at  once  confessed. 
Then  he  with  kisses  did  put  out  their  light, 
And  said,  "  Oh,  strange,  but  more,  dear  love,  to  me 
Are  thy  pure  eyes  than  all  the  stars  of  night 
That  shine  in  heaven  everlastingly ! 
Night  still  is  night,  with  every  star  aglow ; 
But  light  were  night  didst  thou  not  love  me  so." 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


A  NOBLER   EXERCISE. 

OKISSE,  which  doest  those  ruddie  gemmes  im- 
part, 

Or  gemmes  or  frutes  of  new-found  Paradise, 
Breathing  all  blisse,  and  sweet'ning  to  the  heart, 
Teaching  dumbe  lips  a  nobler  exercise ; 
O  kisse,  which  soules,  even  soules,  together  ties 
By  linkes  of  love  and  only  Nature's  art, 
How  faine  would  I  paint  thee  to  all  men's  eyes, 
Or  of  thy  gifts  at  least  shade  out  some  part ! 


THE  MOTH'S  KISS  FIRST.  21 

But  she  forbids  ;  with  blushing  words  she  sayes 

She  builds  her  fame  on  higher-seated  praise. 

But  my  heart  burnes ;  I  cannot  silent  be. 

Then,  since,  deare  life,  you  faine  would  have  me  peace, 

And  I,  mad  with  delight,  want  wit  to  cease, 

Stop  you  my  mouth  with  still,  still  kissing  me. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


THE   MOTH'S   KISS   FIRST. 

THE  moth's  kiss  first! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 
You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 
How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 
Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 
You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 
Who  wants  me,  and  wide  open  burst 

The  bee's  kiss,  now ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday,  — 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up ; 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


22  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


AT   LIFE'S   BEST. 

LOOK  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine 
Like  yonder  morning  on  the  blind  half-world  ; 
Approach  and  fear  not ;  breathe  upon  my  brows ; 
In  that  fine  air  I  tremble,  all  the  past 
Melts  mist-like  into  this  bright  hour,  and  this 
Is  morn  to  more,  and  all  the  rich  to  come 
Reels,  as  the  golden  Autumn  woodland  reels 
Athwart  the  smoke  of  burning  weeds.     Forgive  me, 
I  waste  my  heart  in  signs  :  let  be.     My  bride, 
My  wife,  my  life.     Oh,  we  will  walk  this  world, 
Yoked  in  all  exercise  of  noble  end, 
And  so  through  those  dark  gates  across  the  wild 
That  no  man  knows.     Indeed  I  love  thee;  come, 
Yield  thyself  up :  my  hopes  and  thine  are  one  : 
Accomplish  thou  my  manhood  and  thyself, 
Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine,  and  trust  to  me. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


LIFE   IN  A  LOVE. 

SCAPE  me? 
Never  — 
Beloved ! 
While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 
Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE.  2$ 

My  life  is  at  fault  at  last  I  fear  — 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed ! 
Though  I  do  my  best,  I  shall  scarce  succeed ; 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And,  baffled,  get  up  to  begin  again,  — 

So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that 's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  furthest  bound, 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  drops  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self-same  mark, 
I  shape  me  — 
Ever 
Removed ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


LOVE   IN   A  LIFE. 

ROOM  after  room, 
I  hunt  the  house  through 
We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her, 
Next  time,  herself  !  —  not  the  trouble  behind  her 
Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume  ! 
As   she    brushed    it,   the  cornice-wreath    blossomed 

anew,  — 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 
Yet  the  day  wears, 
And  door  succeeds  door ; 
I  try  the  fresh  fortune,  — 


24  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 
Still  the  same  chance !  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest,  —  who  cares  ? 
But 't  is  twilight,  you  see,  —  with  such  suites  to  explore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune  ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


LOVE  AND   PRUDENCE. 

DO  you  remember  that  most  perfect  night, 
In  the  full  flush  of  June, 
When  the  wide  heavens  were  tranced  in  silver  light 

Of  the  sad,  patient  moon  ? 
Silent  we  sat,  awed  by  a  strange  unrest ; 

The  fathomless,  far  sky 

Our  very  life  absorbed,  our  thoughts  oppressed, 
By  its  immensity. 

Lost  in  that  infinite  vast,  how  idle  seemed 

The  best  of  human  speech ; 
Earth  scarcely  breathed,  so  silently  she  dreamed, 

Save  when  from  some  far  reach 

The  faint  wind  sighed,  and  stirred  the  slumbering 
trees, 

And  shadowy  stretch  and  plain 
Seemed  haunted  by  unuttered  mysteries 

Night  on  its  life  had  lain. 

We  knew  not  what  we  were,  or  where  we  went, 
Borne  by  some  unseen  power, 


RIDING  DOWN.  2$ 

Nor  in  what  dream-shaped  realms  our  spirits  spent 

That  long,  yet  brief  half-hour ; 
I  only  know  that,  as  a  star  from  high 

Slides  down  the  ether  thin, 
We  shot  to  earth,  roused  by  a  startling  cry, 
"  You  're  getting  cold,  —  come  in." 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


THE   AMULET. 

YOUR  picture  smiles  as  first  it  smiled  ; 
The  ring  you  gave  is  still  the  same ; 
Your  letter  tells,  O  changing  child ! 
No  tidings  since  it  came. 

Give  me  an  amulet 

That  keeps  intelligence  with  you,  — 
Red  when  you  love,  and  rosier  red, 

And  when  you  love  not,  pale  and  blue. 

Alas  !  that  neither  bonds  nor  vows 

Can  certify  possession ; 
Torments  me  still  the  fear  that  love 

Died  in  its  last  expression. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 


RIDING   DOWN. 

OH,  did  you  see  him  riding  down, 
And  riding  down,  while  all  the  town 
Came  out  to  see,  came  out  to  see, 
And  all  the  bells  rang  mad  with  glee  ? 


26  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Oh,  did  you  hear  those  bells  ring  out, 
The  bells  ring  out,  the  people  shout, 
And  did  you  hear  that  cheer  on  cheer 
That  over  all  the  bells  rang  clear  ? 

And  did  you  see  the  waving  flags, 

The  fluttering  flags,  the  tattered  flags, 

Red,  white,  and  blue,  shot  through  and  through, 

Baptized  with  battle's  deadly  dew  ? 

And  did  you  hear  the  drum's  gay  beat, 
The  drum's  gay  beat,  the  bugles  sweet, 
The  cymbals  clash,  the  cannon's  crash, 
That  rent  the  sky  with  sound  and  flash  ? 

And  did  you  see  me  waiting  there, 
Just  waiting  there  and  watching  there,  — 
One  little  lass,  amid  the  mass 
That  pressed  to  see  the  hero  pass  ? 

And  did  you  see  him  smiling  down, 
And  smiling  down,  as  riding  down 
With  slowest  pace,  with  stately  grace, 
He  caught  the  vision  of  a  face,  — 

My  face  uplifted,  red  and  white, 
Turned  red  and  white  with  sheer  delight, 
To  meet  the  eyes,  the  smiling  eyes, 
Outflashing  in  their  swift  surprise  ? 

Oh,  did  you  see  how  swift  it  came, 
How  swift  it  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
That  smile  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see  ? 


ROMANY  SONG.  2^ 

And  at  the  windows  all  along, 
Oh,  all  along,  a  lovely  throng 
Of  faces  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Beamed  out  upon  him  riding  there ! 

Each  face  was  like  a  radiant  gem, 
A  sparkling  gem  ;  and  yet  for  them 
No  swift  smile  came,  like  sudden  flame, 
No  arrowy  glance  took  certain  aim. 

He  turned  away  from  all  their  grace  ; 
From  all  that  grace  of  perfect  face, 
He  turned  to  me,  to  only  me, 
The  little  lass  who  blushed  to  see. 

NORA  PERRY. 


ROMANY  SONG. 

IF  I  were  your  little  baby, 
If  you  were  my  mother  old, 
You  would  give  me  a  kiss,  my  darling,  — 
"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  far  too  bold." 

But  as  you  are  not  my  mother, 

But  as  I  am  not  your  son, 
Ah !  that  is  another  matter ; 

So,  may  be,  I  '11  give  you  one. 

LELAND'S  ANGLO-ROMANY  SONGS. 


28  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


LOVE. 

WHEN  daffodils  began  to  blow, 
And  apple-blossoms  thick  to  snow 
Upon  the  brown  and  breaking  mould,  — 
'T  was  in  the  spring,  —  we  kissed  and  sighed 
And  loved,  and  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
We  were  so  young  and  bold. 

The  fluttering  bob-link  dropped  his  song, 
The  first  young  swallow  curved  along, 

The  daisy  stared  in  sturdy  pride, 
When,  loitering  on,  we  plucked  the  flowers, 
But  dared  not  own  those  thoughts  of  ours 

Which  yet  we  could  not  hide. 

Tiptoe  you  bent  the  lilac  spray 
And  shook  its  rain  of  dew  away 

And  reached  it  to  me  with  a  smile : 
"  Smell  that,  how  full  of  spring  it  is  "  — 
'T  is  now  as  full  of  memories 

As  't  was  of  dew  erewhile. 

Your  hand  I  took,  to  help  you  down 
The  broken  wall,  from  stone  to  stone, 

Across  the  shallow  bubbling  brook. 
Ah  !  what  a  thrill  went  from  that  palm, 
That  would  not  let  my  blood  be  calm, 

And  through  my  pulses  shook. 


A  PEARL  — A    GIRL.  29 

Often  our  eyes  met  as  we  turned, 

And  both  our  cheeks  with  passion  burned, 

And  both  our  hearts  grew  riotous, 
Till,  as  we  sat  beneath  the  grove, 
I  kissed  you  —  whispering,  "  We  love  "  — 

As  thus  I  do  —  and  thus. 

When  passion  had  found  utterance, 
Our  frightened  hearts  began  to  glance 

Into  the  Future's  every  day ; 
And  how  shall  we  our  love  conceal, 
Or  dare  our  passion  to  reveal,  — 

"  We  are  too  young,"  they  '11  say. 

Alas !  we  are  not  now  too  young, 
Yet  love  to  us  hath  safely  clung, 

Despite  of  sorrow,  years,  and  care  — 
But  ah !  we  have  not  what  we  had, 
We  cannot  be  so  free,  so  glad, 

So  foolish  as  we  were. 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


A  PEARL  — A  GIRL. 

A  SIMPLE  ring  with  a  single  stone, 
To  the  vulgar  eye  no  stone  of  price : 
Whisper  the  right  word,  —  that  alone,  — 
Forth  starts  a  sprite,  like  fire  from  ice, 
And  lo !  you  are  lord  (says  an  Eastern  scroll) 
Of  heaven  and  earth,  lord  whole  and  sole, 
Through  the  power  in  a  pearl. 


3O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

A  woman  ('t  is  I  this  time  that  say), 
With  little  the  world  counts  worthy  praise  : 

Utter  the  true  word,  —  out  and  away 
Escapes  her  soul :  I  am  wrapt  in  blaze, 

Creation's  lord,  of  heaven  and  earth 

Lord  whole  and  sole  —  by  a  minute's  birth, 
Through  the  love  in  a  girl. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


WHAT  ELSE? 

HEY  walked  together,  in  the  dusk, 

-    Along  the  garden's  shrubbery-edge ; 
The  heavy  roses'  scattered  musk 

Blew  faint  across  the  cedar-hedge : 
A  spotted  snake  came  gliding  through :  — 

To  shield  her  from  imagined  harms, 
What  should  he  do,  what  could  he  do, 

But  take  her  safe  into  his  arms  ? 

While  for  one  happy  moment  still 

Her  head  was  leaning  on  his  breast, 
He  felt  a  little  tremor  thrill 

The  hand  against  his  shoulder  prest : 
The  parted  lips  were  trembling  too :  — 

Some  feeling  for  her  fears  to  show, 
What  should  he  do,  what  could  he  do, 

But  kiss  her  ere  he  let  her  go  ? 

Redder  than  in  the  garden  bed 
The  roses  blossomed  to  her  cheek : 


SPRINGTIME    OF   LOVE. 
From  painting  by  Paul  Thumann, 


EARLY  LOVE.  3! 

«  You  wicked,  wicked  cheat !"  she  said, 
Soon  as  the  injured  lips  could  speak. 

Lest  he  should  prove  her  charge  for  true, 
And  seem  the  most  depraved  of  men, 

What  should  he  do,  what  could  he  do, 
But  give  her  back  the  kiss  again  ? 

KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 


AMOR  OMNIA  VINCIT. 

WHEN,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  —  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE, 

EARLY   LOVE, 

AH !  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 
But  evermore  remember  well  ?)  when  first 
Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 
The  flame  we  felt  j  when  as  we  sat  and  sighed 


32  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  looked  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ailed,  yet  something  we  did  ail 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well, 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then  would  we  kiss,  then  sigh,  then  look ;  and  thus 
In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 
We  spent  our  childhood.     But  when  years  began 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  —  ah,  how  then 
Would  she  with  sterner  looks,  with  graver  brow, 
Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness  ! 
Yet  still  would  give  me  flowers,  still  would  show 
What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 

SAMUEL  DANIEL. 


AN   OLD   LOVER. 

HOW  many  new  years  have  grown  old 
Since  first  your  servant  old  was  new ! 
How  many  long  hours  have  I  told 

Since  first  my  love  was  vowed  to  you  ! 
And  yet,  alas  !  she  doth  not  know 
Whether  her  servant  love  or  no. 

How  many  walls  as  white  as  snow, 
And  windows  clear  as  any  glass, 

Have  I  conjured  to  tell  you  so, 
Which  faithfully  performed  was  ! 

And  yet  you  '11  swear  you  do  not  know 

Whether  your  servant  love  or  no. 


TOUJOURS  AMOUR.  33 

How  often  hath  my  pale  lean  face, 

With  true  characters  of  my  love, 
Petitioned  to  you  for  grace, 

Whom  neither  sighs  nor  tears  can  move ! 
O  cruel,  yet  you  do  not  know 
Whether  your  servant  love  or  no  ? 

And  wanting  oft  a  better  token, 
I  have  been  fain  to  send  my  heart, 

Which  now  your  cold  disdain  hath  broken, 
Nor  can  you  heal 't  by  any  art : 

O  look  upon  't  and  you  shall  know 

Whether  your  servant  love  or  no. 

ROBERT  JONES  :  Elizabethan  Song  Book. 


TOUJOURS   AMOUR. 

T)RITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
JL       At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
But  a  miracle  of  sweets, 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair ; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 
3 


34  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

"  Oh  ! "  the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"  I  can't  tell  you  if  I  try. 
*T  is  so  long  I  can't  remember : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I." 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled  Face, 
Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 
When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 
When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 
Can  its  embers  burn  below 
All  that  chill  December  snow  ? 
Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press, 
Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless  ? 
When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 
Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled  Face ! 

"  Ah !  "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 
"  Youth  may  pass  and  strength  may  die ; 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I." 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


LOVERS. 

HE  gather'd  blue  forget-me-nots, 
To  fling  them  laughing  on  her  knee. 
She  cried,  "  Ah,  no  ;  if  thou  canst  go, 
Ah,  love,  thou  shalt  forgotten  be ! " 


MY  STAR.  35 

He  gather'd  golden  buttercups, 
That  grew  so  very  fresh  and  free. 

"  Ah,  happy  plays,  in  childish  days, 
When  buttercups  were  gold  to  me  ! " 

He  gather'd  little  meadow-sweet 
And  hid  it  where  she  could  not  see. 

She  peeped  about  and  found  it  out, 
And  laugh'd  aloud,  and  so  did  he. 

He  gather'd  shining  silver-weed  ; 

He  stole  the  heather  from  the  bee : 
Amid  the  grass  the  minutes  pass, 

And  twilight  lingers  on  the  lea. 

ANON. 


A] 


MY   STAR. 

LL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star, 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue, 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue  ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird,  —  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled ; 
They  must    solace    themselves    with    the    Saturn 

above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it, 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


36  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


ANN    HATHAWAY. 

WOULD  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay : 
Listen  to  mine  Ann  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay; 
And  Nature  charm,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway; 
To  breathe  delight,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

When  envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray : 

To  soothe  the  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day ; 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst, 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay; 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Ann  Hathaway ! 


FATE.  37 

She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye, 
Their  various  lustre  to  defy,  — 
The  jewels  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look,  Ann  hath  a  way, 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Ann  hath  a  way. 


But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 

To  rate  her  charms,  I  'd  call  them  heaven ; 

For  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 

Angels  must  love  Ann  Hathaway. 

She  hath  a  way  so  to  control, 

To  rapture  the  imprisoned  soul, 

And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 

That  to  be  heaven  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  be  heaven's  self,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE  (?) 


FATE. 

ALL  unconscious  I  beheld  her ; 
Knew  not  that  my  fate  was  nigh,  — 
Fate  that  wears  such  various  aspect 
To  the  victim's  laughing  eye. 


38  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Poets,  painters,  still  to  paint  her 
Dark  and  gloomy  do  their  best; 

Were  I  painter,  I  would  paint  her 
All  in  cherry-color  dressed. 

She  should  be  a  little  maiden, 

Modest,  shrinking,  sweet  and  fair, 

At  a  party,  playing  forfeits, 

Looking,  "  Kiss  me  if  you  dare ! " 

Did  I  kiss  you?     If  I  didn't, 
'T  was  the  blunder  of  my  life. 

Was  the  last  the  hundred  millionth  ? 
Just  one  more  then,  little  wife. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICR 


FATE. 

A  FACE  of  a  summer  ago, 
Of  a  maid  I  met  by  the  sea, 
Haunts  me  wherever  I  go, 
And  is  always  looking  at  me 
With  a  curious  constancy. 

And  whether  I  will  it  or  no, 
I  cannot  get  rid  of  her  gaze, 

Standing  and  looking  so, 
With  her  modest  and  maidenly  ways, 
And  I  would  not  the  rest  of  my  days. 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT. 


TRANSLATION  FROM  HEINE.  39 


THE   WHISPERING   GALLERY. 

SHE  flushed  and  paled,  and,  bridling,  raised  her 
head: 

"  How  could  you  know  that  I  was  in  distress, 
To  come  so  far  and  timely  with  redress  ? 
For  well  and  close,  I  thought,  I  kept  my  dread 
From  common  scorn  or  pity." 

"  So  ?  "  he  said, 

"  I  scarce  can  tell,  and  yet  it  seems  no  less 
Than  that  all  circling  winds  and  waters  press 
To  bring  me  tidings  how  your  life  is  led ; 

"  And  I  could  hear  the  whisper  of  your  name 
Around  the  world.     If  the  whole  earth  should 

lie 
Between  us,  and  you  fled  when  peril  came, 

I  'd  feel  your  foot-beats  throb,  I  think,  and  fly, 
And  come  through  sea  or  waste  or  battle-flame, 
And  thank  God's  favor  in  your  cause  to  die." 

JAMES  T.  McKAY. 


TRANSLATION   FROM   HEINE. 

THE  letter  which  you  wrote  me 
Disturbs  me  not  a  whit ; 
You  '11  love  no  more,  you  tell  me,  — 
But  there  's  too  much  of  it. 


4O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Twelve  pages,  fine  and  neatly,  — 

A  little  manuscript ; 
One  writes  not  so  completely 

When  love's  true  knot  is  slipped. 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT. 


OF  THREE  GIRLS  AND   THEIR  TALK. 

BY  a  clear  well,  within  a  little  field 
Full  of  green  grass  and  flowers  of  every  hue, 

Sat  three  young  girls,  relating  (as  I  knew) 
Their  loves.     Anc.  each  had  twined  a  bough  to  shield 
Her  lovely  face ;  and  the  green  leaves  did  yield 

The  golden  hair  their  shadow ;  while  the  two 

Sweet  colors  mingled,  both  blown  lightly  through 
With  a  soft  wind  forever  stirred  and  still'd. 
After  a  while  one  of  them  said, 

(I  heard  her,)  "  Think !    If,  ere  the  next  hour  struck, 

Each  of  our  lovers  should  come  here  to-day, 
Think  you  that  we  should  fly,  or  feel  afraid  ?  " 

To  whom  the  others  answered,  "  From  such  luck 

A  girl  would  be  a  fool  to  run  away." 

BOCCACCIO. 


LOVE'S   OMNIPRESENCE. 

WERE  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me,  your  humble  swain, 
Ascend  to  heaven,  in  honor  of  my  Love. 


A   MYSTERY.  41 

Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 
And  you,  my  Love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 
Wheresoe'er  you  were,  with  you  my  Love  should  go. 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  and  I  the  skies, 

My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 

And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes 

Till  heaven  waxed  blind,  and  till  the  world  were  done. 

Wheresoe'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Wheresoe'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

JOSHUA  SYLVESTER. 


A  MYSTERY. 

E  love  wherewith  my  heart  is  big  for  thee, 
A       Hath  found   no  home  with  cowards   or  with 

slaves ; 

It  blooms  a  deathless  flower  among  the  free, 
And  on  untrodden  heights  unbroken  waves. 

No  little  heart  can  hold  it,  for  it  springs 
Twinned  with  eternity  and  scorn  of  death, 

Feeding  on  hopes  and  high  imaginings 
That  fail  not  with  our  fitful  human  breath. 

With  those  sweet  strivings  of  the  blood  that  stir 
Our  souls  in  youth,  and  make  our  manhood  great, 

By  interchange  of  love  and  life  with  her 
Who  clings  to  us  in  bonds  of  equal  fate, 


42  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

This  passion  hath  no  part  —  nor  on  the  roots 
Of  sense  and  yearning  stationed,  nor  upborne 

By  tenderness ;  nor  are  its  sterner  fruits 
Shown  in  dear  kisses  given  at  night  or  morn. 

Be  it  enough  that  thou  and  I  are  one, 
That  years  and  days  seem  nothing  in  the  shine 

Of  that  perpetual  and  unsinking  sun 

Which  nerves  our  souls  with  energy  divine. 

If  tongue  might  tell  the  mystery  I  mean, 
Then  all  the  world  would  love  perchance  like  us  ; 

But  should  these  lines  by  the  great  world  be  seen, 
They  'd  move  mere  laughter.    Well :  't  is  better  thus. 
JOHN  ADDINGTON  SYMONDS. 


THE   DIFFICULTY. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   HEINE. 

ABOUT  my  Darling's  lovely  eyes 
I  Tve  made  no  end  of  verses ; 
About  her  precious  little  mouth, 
Songs,  which  each  voice  rehearses  ; 
About  my  Darling's  little  cheek, 
I  wrote  a  splendid  sonnet ; 
And,  —  if  she  only  had  a  heart, 
I  'd  write  an  ode  upon  it. 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


RVTH.  43 


RUTH. 

SHE  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasped  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush, 
Deeply  ripened  ;  —  such  a  blush 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  veiled  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat,  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  ; 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stocks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

"  Sure,"  I  said,  "  Heaven  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come, 
Shaje  my  harvest  and  my  home." 

THOMAS  Hooix 


44  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


HOW  MANY  TIMES. 

HOW  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 
In  the  atmosphere 
Of  a  new-fallen  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 

The  latest  flake  of  Eternity : 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love,  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 
In  a  silver  chain 
Of  the  evening  rain, 
Unravelled  from  the  tumbling  main, 

And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star : 
So  many  times  do  I  love,  again. 

THOMAS  LOVELL  BEDDOES. 


ASK  ME  NO   MORE. 

ASK  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape, 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But,  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answered  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 


MENU  DE  L'AMOUR. 
From  painting  by  Jean  Aubert. 


KISSING  HER  HAIR.  45 

Ask  me  no  more :  what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die ! 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are  sealed : 
I  strove  against  the  stream,  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


KISSING   HER   HAIR. 

I SS ING  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  feet: 
Wove  and  unwove  it,  —  wound  and  found  it 

sweet ; 

Made  fast  therewith  her  hands,  drew  down  her  eyes, 
Deep  as  deep  flowers,  and  dreamy  like  dim  skies ; 
With  her  own  tresses  bound,  and  found  her  fair,  — 
Kissing  her  hair. 

Sleep  were  no  sweeter  than  her  face  to  me,  — 
Sleep  of  cold  sea-bloom  under  the  cold  sea : 
What  pain  could  get  between  my  face  and  hers  ? 
What  new  sweet  thing  would  Love  not  relish  worse  ? 
Unless  perhaps  white  death  has  kissed  me  there, — 
Kissing  her  hair. 
ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE. 


46  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


ONE  WORD   IS   TOO   OFTEN   PROFANED. 

ONE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 
For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  Pity  from  thee  more  dear 
Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  heavens  reject  not : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


"LOVE   DOTH   TO   HER  EYES   REPAIR." 

Translated  from  RUckert. 

WHY  ask  of  others  what  they  cannot  say, — 
Others,  who  for  thy  good  have  little  care? 
Come  close,  dear  friend,  and  learn  a  better  way; 
Look  in  my  eyes,  and  read  my  story  there ! 


HAPPIEST  GIRL  IN  THE  WORLD.        47 

Trust  not  thine  own  proud  wit ;  't  is  idle  dreaming ! 

The  common  gossip  of  the  street  forbear ; 
Nor  even  trust  my  acts  or  surface  seeming : 

Ask  only  of  my  eyes  ;  my  truth  is  there. 

My  lips  refuse  an  answer  to  thy  boldness ; 

Or  with  false,  cruel  words  deny  thy  prayer,  — 
Believe  them  not,  I  hate  them  for  their  coldness  ! 

Look  in  my  eyes ;  my  love  is  written  there. 

JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE 


THE   HAPPIEST   GIRL   IN   THE   WORLD.1 

A  WEEK  ago  ;  and  I  am  almost  glad 
to  have  him  now  gone  for  this  little  while, 
that  I  may  think  of  him  and  tell  myself 
what  to  be  his  means,  now  that  I  am  his, 
and  know  if  mine  is  love  enough  for  him, 
and  make  myself  believe  it  all  is  true. 

A  week  ago ;  and  it  seems  like  a  life, 
and  I  have  not  yet  learned  to  know  myself : 
I  am  so  other  than  I  was,  so  strange, 
grown  younger  and  grown  older  all  in  one ; 
and  I  am  not  so  sad  and  not  so  gay ; 
and  I  think  nothing,  only  hear  him  think. 

And  did  I  love  him  from  the  day  we  met  ? 
but  I  more  gladly  danced  with  some  one  else 

I  Farts  of  a  poem.    The  peculiar  printing  is  preserved. 


48  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

who  waltzed  more  smoothly  and  was  merrier : 
and  did  I  love  him  when  he  first  came  here  ? 
but  I  more  gladly  talked  with  some  one  else 
whose  words  were  readier  and  who  sought  me  more. 
When  did  I  love  ?    How  did  it  begin  ? 

Ah,  well,  I  would  that  I  could  love  him  more, 
and  not  be  only  happy  as  I  am ; 
I  would  that  I  could  love  him  to  his  worth, 
with  that  forgetting  all  myself  in  him, 
that  subtle  pain  of  exquisite  excess, 
that  momentary  infinite  sharp  joy, 
I  know  by  books  but  cannot  teach  my  heart : 
and  yet  I  think  my  love  must  needs  be  love, 
since  he  can  read  me  through  —  oh  happy  strange, 
my  thoughts  that  were  my  secrets  all  for  me 
grown  instantly  his  open  easy  book  !  — 
since  he  can  read  me  through,  and  is  content. 

And  shall  I  for  so  many  coming  days 
be  flower  and  sweetness  to  him  ?     O  pale  flower, 
grow,  grow,  and  blossom  out,  and  fill  the  air, 
feed  on  his  richness,  grow,  grow,  blossom  out, 
and  fill  the  air,  and  be  enough  for  him. 

My  love,  my  love,  my  love !     And  I  shall  be 
so  much  to  him,  so  almost  everything : 
and  I  shall  be  the  friend  whom  he  will  trust, 
and  I  shall  be  the  child  whom  he  will  teach, 
and  I  shall  be  the  servant  he  will  praise, 


HIS  LADY'S  PRAISE.  49 

and  I  shall  be  the  mistress  he  will  love, 
and  I  shall  be  his  wife.     O  days  to  come, 
will  ye  not  pass  like  gentle  rhythmic  steps 
that  fall  to  sweetest  music  noiselessly  ? 

Together  always,  that  was  what  he  said  ; 
together  always.     O  dear  coming  days ! 
O  dear  dear  present  days  that  pass  too  fast, 
although  they  bring  such  rainbow  morrows  on  ! 
that  pass  so  fast,  and  yet,  I  know  not  why, 
seem  always  to  encompass  so  much  time. 
And  I  should  fear  I  were  too  happy  now, 
and  making  this  poor  world  too  much  my  Heaven, 
but  that  I  feel  God  nearer,  and  it  seems 
as  if  I  had  learned  His  love  better  too. 

AUGUSTA  WEBSTER, 


HIS   LADY'S   PRAISE. 

MY  lady  carries  love  within  her  eyes ; 
All  that  she  looks  on  is  made  pleasanter; 
Upon  her  path  men  turn  to  gaze  at  her  ; 
He  whom  she  greeteth  feels  his  heart  to  rise, 
And  droops  his  troubled  visage,  full  of  sighs, 
And  of  his  evil  heart  is  then  aware  : 
Hate  loves,  and  pride  becomes  a  worshipper. 
O  women,  help  to  praise  her  in  somewise. 
Humbleness,  and  the  hope  that  hopeth  well, 
By  speech  of  hers  into  the  mind  are  brought, 
4 


5O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  who  beholds  is  blessed  oftenwhiles, 
The  look  she  hath  when  she  a  little  smiles 
Cannot  be  said,  nor  holden  in  the  thought ; 
'T  is  such  a  new  and  generous  miracle. 

DANTE:  Vita  Nuova. 


PRISCILLA. 

MY  little  Love  sits  in  the  shade 
Beneath  the  climbing  roses, 
And  gravely  sews  in  a  half -dream 
The  dainty  measures  of  her  seam 
Until  the  twilight  closes. 

I  look  and  long,  yet  have  no  care 
To  break  her  maiden  musing ; 
I  idly  toss  my  book  away, 
And  watch  the  pretty  fingers  stray 
Along  their  task  confusing. 

The  dews  fall,  and  the  sunset  light 
Goes  creeping  o'er  the  meadows, 
And  still,  with  serious  eyes  cast  down, 
She  gravely  sews  her  wedding-gown 
Among  the  growing  shadows. 

I  needs  must  gaze,  though  on  her  cheek 

The  bashful  roses  quiver  — 
She  is  so  modest,  simple,  sweet, 
That  I,  poor  pilgrim,  at  her  feet 

Would  fain  adore  forever. 


A  BROOK  IN  YOUR  LITTLE  HEART.      51 

A  heavenly  peace  dwells  in  her  heart ; 

Her  love  is  yet  half  duty, 
Serene  and  serious,  still  and  quaint, 
She  's  partly  woman,  partly  saint, 

This  Presbyterian  beauty. 

She  is  so  shy  that  all  my  prayers 

Scarce  win  a  few  small  kisses  — 
She  lifts  her  lovely  eyes  to  mine 
And  softly  grants,  with  blush  divine, 
Such  slender  grace  as  this  is. 

I  watch  her  with  a  tender  care 

And  joy  not  free  from  sadness  — 
For  what  am  I  that  I  should  take 
This  gentle  soul  and  think  to  make 
Its  future  days  all  gladness  ? 

Can  I  fulfil  those  maiden  dreams 

In  some  imperfect  fashion  ? 
I  am  no  hero,  but  I  know 
I  love  you,  Dear —  the  rest  I  throw 

Upon  your  sweet  compassion. 

ELLEN  MACKAY  HUTCHINSON 

"HAVE  YOU   GOT  A   BROOK   IN   YOUR 
LITTLE    HEART?" 

HAVE  you  got  a  brook  in  your  little  heart, 
Where  bashful  flowers  blow, 
And  blushing  birds  go  down  to  drink, 
And  shadows  tremble  so  ? 


52  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  nobody  knows,  so  still  it  flows, 
That  any  brook  is  there ; 
And  yet  your  little  draught  of  life 
Is  daily  drunken  there. 

Then  look  out  for  the  little  brook  in  March, 
When  the  rivers  overflow, 
And  the  snows  come  hurrying  from  the  hills, 
And  the  bridges  often  go. 

And  later,  in  August  it  may  be, 
When  the  meadows  parching  lie, 
Beware,  lest  this  little  brook  of  life 
Some  burning  noon  go  dry  ! 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


MINE. 

OHOW  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep 
repeating, 

And  I  drink  up  joy  like  wine : 
O  how  my  heart    is   beating  as  her  name    I   keep 

repeating, 

For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine  ! 
She 's  rich,  she 's  fair,  beyond  compare, 
Of  noble  mind,  serene  and  kind  — 
And  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name   I   keep 

repeating, 
For  the  lovely  girl  is  mine. 


DITTY.  53 

O   how  my  heart   is   beating  as  her   name   I   keep 

repeating, 

In  a  music  soft  and  fine  ; 
O   how  my  heart  is   beating  as   her  name    I   keep 

repeating, 

For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine. 
She  owns  no  lands,  has  no  white  hands, 
Her  lot  is  poor,  her  life  obscure  ;  — 
Yet  how  my  heart   is  beating  as   her  name  I  keep 

repeating, 
For  the  girl  I  love  is  mine. 

DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK. 


DITTY. 

MY  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his, 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss ; 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  ! 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides : 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 


54  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE   DIFFERENCE. 

IT  is  the  season  now  to  go 
About  the  country  high  and  low, 
Among  the  lilacs  hand  in  hand, 
And  two  by  two  in  fairy  land. 

The  brooding  boy,  the  sighing  maid, 
Wholly  fain  and  half  afraid, 
Now  meet  along  the  hazel'd  brook 
To  pass  and  linger,  pause  and  look. 

A  year  ago,  and  blithely  paired, 
Their  rough-and-tumble  play  they  shared  ; 
They  kissed  and  quarrelled,  laughed  and  cried, 
A  year  ago  at  Eastertide. 

With  bursting  heart,  with  fiery  face, 

She  strove  against  him  in  the  race ; 

He  unabashed  her  garter  saw, 

That  now  would  touch  her  skirts  with  awe. 

Now  by  the  stile  ablaze  she  stops, 
And  his  demurer  eyes  he  drops  ; 
Now  they  exchange  averted  sighs, 
Or  stand  and  marry  silent  eyes. 

And  he  to  her  a  hero  is, 
And  sweeter  she  than  primroses ; 
Their  common  silence  dearer  far 
Than  nightingale  and  mavis  are. 


A   RING  POSY.  55 

Now  when  they  sever  wedded  hands, 
Joy  trembles  in  their  bosom-strands, 
And  lovely  laughter  leaps  and  falls 
Upon  their  lips  in  madrigals. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


A   PLEASANT   SONG. 

THE  nightingale  has  a  lyre  of  gold, 
The  lark's  is  a  clarion  call, 
And  the  blackbird  plays  but  a  boxwood  flute, 
But  I  love  him  best  of  all. 

For  his  song  is  all  of  the  joy  of  life, 
And  we,  in  the  mad  spring  weather, 

We  two  have  listened  till  he  sang 
Our  hearts  and  lips  together. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


A  RING   POSY. 

JESS  and  Jill  are  pretty  girls, 
Plump  and  well  to  do, 
In  a  cloud  of  windy  curls  : 

Yet  I  know  who 
Loves  me  more  than  curls  or  pearls. 

I  'm  not  pretty,  not  a  bit ; 

Thin  and  sallow-pale ; 
When  I  trudge  along  the  street 

I  don't  need  a  veil ; 
Yet  I  have  one  fancy  hit. 


56  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Jess  and  Jill  can  trill  and  sing 

With  a  flute-like  voice, 
Dance  as  light  as  bird  on  wing, 

Laugh  for  careless  joys : 
Yet 't  is  I  who  wear  the  ring. 

Jess  and  Jill  will  mate  some  day, 

Surely,  surely ; 

Ripen  on  to  June  through  May, 
While  the  sun  shines  make  their  hay, 

Slacken  steps  demurely : 
Yet  even  there  I  lead  the  way. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 


"MY  LOVE  FOR  THEE  DOTH  MARCH  LIKE 
ARMED  MEN." 

MY  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men 
Against  a  queenly  city  they  would  take. 
Along  the  army's  front  its  banners  shake ; 
Across  the  mountain  and  the  sun-smit  plain 

It  stedfast  sweeps  as  sweeps  the  stedfast  rain ; 
And  now  the  trumpet  makes  the  still  air  quake, 
And  now  the  thundering  cannon  doth  awake 
Echo  on  echo,  echoing  loud  again. 

But,  lo  !  the  conquest  higher  than  bard  had  sung ; 
Instead  of  answering  cannon  comes  a  small 
White  flag ;  the  iron  gates  are  open  flung, 

And  flowers  along  the  invaders'  pathway  fall. 
The  city's  conquerors  feast  their  foes  among, 
And  their  brave  flags  are  trophies  on  her  wall. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE    YEAR   THAT'S  COME  AND  GONE.    $7 


THE   WAYS   OF   LOVE. 

HOW  do  I  love  thee  ?     Let  me  count  the  ways. 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 
My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  Ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise ; 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith ; 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints,  —  I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  lif e !  —  and,  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


IN   THE  YEAR  THAT'S  COME  AND  GONE. 

IN  the  year  that 's  come  and  gone,  love,  his  flying 
feather 
Stooping  slowly,  gave  us  heart,  and  bade  us  walk 

together. 
In  the  year  that's  coming  on,  though  many  a  troth  be 

broken, 
We  at  least  will  not  forget  aught  that  love  hath  spoken. 


58  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

In  the  year  that's  come  and  gone,  dear,  we  wove  a 

tether 
All  of    gracious  words  and   thoughts,  binding   two 

together. 

In  the  year  that 's  coming  on,  with  its  wealth  of  roses, 
We  shall  weave  it  stronger  yet,  ere  the  circle  closes. 

In  the  year  that 's  come  and  gone,  in  the  golden 

weather, 
Sweet,  my  sweet,  we  swore  to  keep  the  watch  of  life 

together. 

In  the  year  that 's  coming  on,  rich  in  joy  and  sorrow, 
We  shall  light  our  lamp,  and  wait  life's  mysterious 

morrow. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


LOVE'S    VICTORY. 

TWICE  had  the  changing  seasons  run  their  round, 
Bringing  to  mortals  happiness  and  tears ; 
The  third  year  came,  and  with  it  heaven  itself 
Took  wing  to  fold  its  pinions  on  my  heart ! 
Then  in  the  self-same  eyes  I  gazed  again, 
To  read  there  love,  immeasurable  love, 
In  sanctity  of  virgin  scripture  writ; 
And  words  were  murmured,  words  that  passed  her  lips 
To  pass  again  no  others,  but  one  breast 
Still  echoes  with  them,  as  with  rolling  hymns 
And  hallelujahs  some  high-vaulted  roof, 
Beneath  which  joy  in  praise  its  wealth  outpours. 


FAR,  AND    YET  NEAR.  59 

Then,  as  high-rising  tides  might  lift  a  barque, 
That  long  had  waited,  and  the  mariners, 
Now  homeward  bound,  with  many  a  loud  huzza, 
Run  to  the  ropes  together,  all  as  one 
Lay  hold,  spread  topsail  and  topgallant,  set 
The  royals,  fix  the  booms,  while  every  soul 
Bubbles  with  pleasure  as  before  the  prow 
The  gamesome  foam  goes  dancing,  and  the  wake 
Grows  white  behind :  so  love  and  love's  delight 
Swelled  to  uplift  me  on  their  wide  expanse, 
While  all  the  winds  of  promise  blew  me  home. 
And  when  the  ocean  of  that  summer's  joy 
Beat  on  the  shores  of  autumn,  then,  there  came 
My  heart  to  port,  with  all  its  argosies 
Of  hopes  that  furled  their  sails  in  blessedness. 
Nor  yet  I  called  her  mine.     How  could  I  dare  ? 
Mine  as  the  sky  the  eagle's,  when  he  floats 
Amid  its  deeps !     Mine  as  the  sun  of  June 
Is  propertied  by  the  cup  he  paints  with  gold, 
Or  morning  by  the  birds,  whose  folded  sleep 
Her  soft  ray  touches  till  it  flower  in  song ! 

DAVID  A.  WASSON. 


FAR,   AND  YET   NEAR.; 

GO  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Hence  forward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 


60  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore,  .  . 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mino 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.    What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes,  the  tears  of  two. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


BY  THE   SWINGING  SEAS. 

SHE  sauntered  by  the  swinging  seas, 
A  jewel  glittered  at  her  ear, 
And,  teasing  her  along,  the  breeze 
Brought  many  a  rounded  grace  more  near. 

So  passing,  one  with  wave  and  beam, 

She  left,  for  memory  to  caress, 
A  laughing  thought,  a  golden  gleam, 

A  hint  of  hidden  loveliness. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


TO  A   GIRL.  6l 

"LAST  NIGHT  IN  BLUE  MY  LITTLE  LOVE 
WAS  DRESSED." 

LAST  night  in  blue  my  little  love  was  dressed; 
And  as  she  walked  the  room  in  maiden  grace, 
I  looked  into  her  fair  and  smiling  face, 
And  said  that  blue1  became  my  darling  best. 
But  when,  this  morn,  a  spotless  virgin  vest 
And  robe  of  white  did  the  blue  one  displace, 
She  seemed  a  pearl-tinged  cloud,  and  I  was  —  space! 
She  filled  my  soul  as  cloud  shapes  fill  the  West. 

And  so  it  is  that,  changing  day  by  day,  — 
Changing  her  robe,  but  not  her  loveliness,  — 

Whether  the  gown  be  blue,  or  white,  or  gray, 
I  deem  that  one  her  most  becoming  dress. 

The  truth  is  this  :  In  any  robe  or  way, 

I  love  her  just  the  same,  and  cannot  love  her  less ! 
CHARLES  HENRY  WEBB  ("JOHN  PAUL"). 


T 


TO  A  GIRL. 
HOU  art  so  very  sweet  and  fair, 


With  such  a  heaven  in  thine  eyes, 
It  almost  seems  an  overcare 
To  ask  thee  to  be  good  or  wise. 

As  if  a  little  bird  were  blam'd 

Because  its  song  unthinking  flows ; 

As  if  a  rose  should  be  asham'd 
Of  being  nothing  but  a  rose. 

ANON. 


62  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


AGRO-DOLCE. 

ONE  kiss  from  all  others  prevents  me, 
And  sets  all  my  pulses  astir, 
And  burns  on  my  lips  and  torments  me  : 
'T  is  the  kiss  that  I  fain  would  give  her. 

One  kiss  for  all  others  requites  me, 

Although  it  is  never  to  be, 
And  sweetens  my  dreams  and  invites  me : 

'T  is  the  kiss  that  she  dare  not  give  me. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


CAPRICE. 

SHE  hung  the  cage  at  the  window : 
"  If  he  goes  by,"  she  said, 
"  He  will  hear  my  robin  singing, 

And  when  he  lifts  his  head, 
I  shall  be  sitting  here  to  sew, 
And  he  will  bow  to  me  I  know." 

The  robin  sang  a  love-sweet  song, 
The  young  man  raised  his  head ; 

The  maiden  turned  away  and  blushed 
"  I  am  a  fool !  "  she  said, 

And  went  on  broidering  in  silk 

A  pink-eyed  rabbit,  white  as  milk. 


CAPRICE.  63 

The  young  man  loitered  slowly 
By  the  house  three  times  that  day ; 

She  took  the  bird  from  the  window : 
"  He  need  not  look  this  way." 

She  sat  at  her  piano  long, 

And  sighed,  and  played  a  death-sad  song. 

But  when  the  day  was  done,  she  said, 

"  I  wish  that  he  would  come ! 
Remember,  Mary,  if  he  calls 

To-night  —  I  'm  not  at  home." 
So  when  he  rang,  she  went  —  the  elf !  — • 
She  went  and  let  him  in  herself. 

They  sang  full  long  together 
Their  songs  love-sweet,  death-sad ; 

The  robin  woke  from  his  slumber, 
And  rang  out,  clear  and  glad. 

"  Now  go !  "  she  coldly  said ;  "  't  is  late  ; " 

And  followed  him  —  to  latch  the  gate. 

He  took  the  rosebud  from  her  hair, 
While  «  You  shall  not ! "  she  said ; 

He  closed  her  hand  within  his  own, 
And,  while  her  tongue  forbade, 

Her  will  was  darkened  in  the  eclipse 

Of  blinding  love  upon  his  lips. 

WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS 


64  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


EVE'S   DAUGHTER. 

I    WAI  TED  in  the  little  sunny  room  : 
The  cool  breeze  waved  the  window-lace,  at  play, 
The  white  rose  on  the  porch  was  all  in  bloom, 

And  out  upon  the  bay 
I  watched  the  wheeling  sea-birds  go  and  come. 

"  Such  an  old  friend,  —  she  would  not  make  me  stay 
While  she  bound  up  her  hair."    I  turned,  and  lo, 

Danae  in  her  shower !  and  fit  to  slay 
All  a  man's  hoarded  prudence  at  a  blow : 

Gold  hair,  that  streamed  away 
As  round  some  nymph  a  sunlit  fountain's  flow. 

"  She  would  not  make  me  wait ! "  but  well  I  know 

She  took  a  good  half-hour  to  loose  and  lay 
Those  locks  in  dazzling  disarrangement  so ! 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


ST.   GEORGE'S,   HANOVER   SQUARE. 

SHE  pass'd  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire, 
A  delicate  lady  in  bridal  attire, 
Fair  emblem  of  virgin  simplicity ; 
Half  London  was  there,  and,  my  word,  there  were  few 
That  stood  by  the  altar,  or  hid  in  a  pew, 
But  envied  Lord  Nigel's  felicity. 


THE  LOVE-LET7ER.  65 

Beautiful  bride !     So  meek  in  thy  splendor, 
So  frank  in  thy  love,  and  its  trusting  surrender, 

Departing  you  leave  us  the  town  dim ! 
May  happiness  wing  to  thy  bower,  unsought, 
And  may  Nigel,  esteeming  his  bliss  as  he  ought, 

Prove  worthy  thy  worship,  —  confound  him ! 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


THE   LOVE-LETTER. 

WARMED  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her  hair 
As  close  she  leaned  and  poured  her  heart 
through  thee, 

Whereof  the  articulate  throbs  accompany 
The  smooth  black  stream  that  makes  thy  whiteness 

fair,  — 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her  breath  aware,  — 
Oh  let  thy  silent  song  disclose  to  me 
That  soul  wherewith  her  lips  and  eyes  agree 
Like  married  music  in  Love's  answering  air. 

Fain  had  I  watched  her  when,  at  some  fond  thought, 
Her  bosom  to  the  writing  closelier  press'd, 
And  her  breasfs  secrets  peered  into  her  breast;! 
When,  through  eyes  raised  an  instant,  her  soul  sought 
My  soul,  and  from  the  sudden  confluence  caught 
The  words  that  made  her  love  the  loveliest. 

DANTE  G.  ROSSETTI. 


66  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


SUMMER   IS   COMING. 

UMMER  is  coming,  summer  is  coming. 

I  know  it,  I  know  it,  I  know  it. 
Light  again,  leaf  again,  life  again,  love  again," 
Yes,  my  wild  little  Poet. 

Sing  the  new  year  in  under  the  blue. 

Last  year  you  sang  it  as  gladly. 
"  New,  new,  new,  new ! "  Is  it  then  so  new 

That  you  should  carol  so  madly  ? 

"  Love  again,  song  again,  nest  again,  young  again!" 

Never  a  prophet  so  crazy  ! 
And  hardly  a  daisy  as  yet,  little  friend, 

See,  there  is  hardly  a  daisy. 

"  Here  again,  here,  here,  here,  happy  year ! " 

O  warble  unchidden,  unbidden ! 
Summer  is  coming,  is  coming,  my  dear, 

And  all  the  winters  are  hidden. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON, 


UMPIRES. 

WE  chose  our  blossoms,  sitting  on  the  grass ; 
His,  Marguerites,  with  sunny,  winsome  faces, 
Mine,  the  bright  clover,  with  its  statelier  graces. 
"  Let  these  decide  the  argument,  my  lass ; 


FOND    RECOLLECTIONS. 

From  painting  by  £,  A  iczky. 


UMPIRES.  67 

We'll  watch,"  said  he,  "the  light-winged  breezes  pass 
And  note  which  first  the  earliest  whiff  displaces: 
If  it  be  daisy,  yours  the  sore  disgrace  is, 

And  if  it 's  clover,  then  I  yield,  alas  !  " 

The  lightsome  quarrel  was  but  half  in  jest ; 

I  would  go  homeward ;  he  would  sit  and  rest  — 

The  foolish  cousin  whom  I  would  not  wed. 

Smiling  we  waited  ;  not  a  word  we  said, 

In  earnest  he,  and  I  quite  debonair  — 

But  oh,  the  stillness  of  that  summer  air ! 

So  still  it  was  —  so  still  with  quiet  heat, 
The  blossom  lately  from  the  brooklet  quaffing 
Ceased  its  brisk  dipping  and  sly  telegraphing, 

And  scorned  the  blossom  opposite  to  greet. 

The  very  grass  stood  breathless  at  our  feet ; 
When  suddenly,  our  weighty  silence  chaffing, 
The  leaves  around  broke  out  in  muffled  laughing, 

And  something  stirred  the  fickle  Marguerite ! 

"  Your  flower,"  I  cried.  —  "  Ah,  now  it  bends  quite 

over ! " 
"  Oho ! "  he  answered  —  " see  your  nodding  clover! " 

In  truth,  those  silly  blossoms  fluttered  so, 

I  really  knew  not  if  to  stay  or  go.  — 

And  so  it  happened  that  the  twilight  found  me 

Still  resting  there,  —  and  Charley's  arm  around  me. 

MARY  MAPES  DODGE. 


68  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


IN  THREE   DAYS. 

SO,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  — 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine,  — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine ! 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days ! 
But  nights  —  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So,  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her !  what  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Out-breaking  into  fairy  sparks 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 
Thro'  lights  and  darks  how  manifold  — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  Art  embrowned  the  gold. 

What  great  fear  —  should  one  say,  "Three  days 
That  change  the  world,  might  change  as  well 


COMING  IN  THE  FALL.  69 

Your  fortune ;  and  if  joy  delays, 

Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell." 

What  small  fear  —  if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways ; 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear !  —  or  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear  ?     I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


"IF  YOU   WERE   COMING   IN   THE   FALL." 

IF  you  were  coming  in  the  fall, 
I  'd  brush  the  summer  by 
With  half  a  smile  and  half  a  spurn, 
As  housewives  do  a  fly. 

If  I  could  see  you  in  a  year, 

I  'd  wind  the  months  in  balls, 
And  put  them  each  in  separate  drawers. 

Until  their  time  befalls. 

If  only  centuries  delayed, 

I  'd  count  them  on  my  hand, 
Subtracting  till  my  fingers  dropped 

Into  Van  Diemen's  land. 


70  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

If  certain,  when  this  life  was  out, 
That  yours  and  mine  should  be, 

I  'd  toss  it  yonder  like  a  rind, 
And  taste  eternity. 

But  now,  all  ignorant  of  the  length 

Of  time's  uncertain  wing, 
It  goads  me,  like  the  goblin  bee 

That  will  not  state  its  sting. 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


"LOVE  ME  NOT,   LOVE,  FOR  THAT  I   FIRST 
LOVED  THEE." 

LOVE  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee, 
Nor  love  me,  Love,  for  thy  sweet  pity's  sake, 
In  knowledge  of  the  mortal  pain  and  ache 
Which  is  the  fruit  of  love's  blood-veined  tree. 

Let  others  for  my  love  give  love  to  me : 
From  other  souls,  oh,  gladly  will  I  take, 
This  burning,  heart  dry  thirst  of  love  to  slake, 
What  seas  of  human  pity  there  may  be  ! 

Nay,  nay,  I  care  no  more  how  love  may  grow, 
So  that  I  hear  thee  answer  to  my  call ! 
Love  me  because  my  piteous  tears  do  flow, 

Or  that  my  love  for  thee  did  first  befall. 
Love  me  or  late  or  early,  fast  or  slow : 
But  love  me,  Love,  for  love  is  one  and  all ! 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


THE  PREGNANT  COMMENT. 


TO  THE  VIRGINS,  TO   MAKE  MUCH  OF  TIME 

ATHER  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying  : 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 
To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun, 

The  higher  he  's  a  getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he  's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry ; 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  forever  tarry. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE   PREGNANT   COMMENT. 

OPENING  one  day  a  book  of  mine, 
I  absent,  Hester  found  a  line 
Praised  with  a  pencil  mark,  and  this 
She  left  transfigured  wfth  a  kiss. 


72  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

When  next  upon  the  page  I  chance, 
Like  Poussin's  nymphs  my  pulses  dance, 
And  whirl  my  fancy  where  it  sees 
Pan  piping  'neath  Arcadian  trees, 
Whose  leaves  no  winter-scenes  rehearse, 
Still  young  and  glad  as  Homer's  verse. 
"  What  mean,"  I  ask,  "  these  sudden  joys  ? 
This  feeling  fresher  than  a  boy's  ? 
What  makes  this  line,  familiar  long, 
New  as  the  first  bird's  April  song? 
I  could,  with  sense  illumined  thus, 
Clear  doubtful  texts  in  ^Eschylus ! " 

Laughing,  one  day  she  gave  the  key, 
My  riddle's  open  sesame ; 
Then  added,  with  a  smile  demure, 
Whose  downcast  lids  veiled  triumph  sure, 
"  If  what  I  left  there  give  you  pain, 
You  —  you  —  can  take  it  off  again  ; 
'T  was  for  my  poet,  not  for  him, 
Your  Doctor  Donne  there  ! " 

Earth  grew  dim 

And  wavered  in  a  golden  mist, 
As  rose,  not  paper  leaves  I  kissed. 
Donne,  you  forgive  ?     I  let  you  keep 
Her  precious  comment,  poet  deep. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


HER  PERFECT  PRAISE. 


FIRST,  SECOND,   THIRD. 

FIRST  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write, 
And  ever  since  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings, . . .  quick  with  its  "Oh  list,"  . . , 
When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  Amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my  sight 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half  missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair,  O  beyond  meed  I 
That  was  the  chrism  of  love,  which  love's  own  crown, 
With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede. 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down 
In  perfect,  purple  state !  since  when,  indeed, 
I  have  been  proud,  and  said,  "  My  Love,  my  own." 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


HER   PERFECT   PRAISE. 

THERE 'S  a'woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she  's  so  purer 
than  the  purest ; 
And  her  noble  heart 's  the  noblest,  yes,  and  her  sure 

faith  's  the  surest : 
And  her  eyes  are  dark  and  humid,  like  the  depth  on 

depth  of  lustre 

Hid  i'  the  harebell,  while  her  tresses,  sunnier  than  the 
wild  grape  cluster, 


74  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Gush  in  golden-tinted  plenty  down  her  neck's  rose- 
misted  marble : 

Then  her  voice 's  music  .  .  .  call  it  the  well's  bubbling, 
the  bird's  warble ! 

And  this  woman  says,  "  My  days  were  sunless  and  my 

nights  were  moonless, 
Parched  the  pleasant  April  herbage,  and  the  lark's 

heart's  outbreak  tuneless, 
If  you  loved  me  not !  "     And  I  who  —  (ah,  for  words 

of  flame  !)  adore  her  ! 
Who  am  mad  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate  palpably  before 

her  — 
I  may  enter  at  her  portal  soon,  as  now   her  lattice 

takes  me, 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her  mine,  as 

hers  she  makes  me! 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


SONNET   FROM    PETRARCH. 

ENTLE  severity,  repulses  mild, 
v_J     Full  of  chaste  love  and  pity  sorrowing ; 
Graceful  rebukes,  that  had  the  power  to  bring 
Back  to  itself  a  heart  by  dreams  beguiled ; 
A  tender  voice,  whose  accents  undefiled 
Held  sweet  restraints,  all  duty  honoring; 
The  bloom  of  virtue ;  purity's  sweet  spring 
To  cleanse  away  base  thoughts  and  passions  wild; 


AMY  WENTWORTH.  f$ 

Divinest  eyes  to  make  a  lover's  bliss, 
Whether  to  bridle  in  the  wayward  mind 
Lest  its  wild  wanderings  should  the  pathway  miss, 

Or  else  its  griefs  to  soothe,  its  wounds  to  bind,  — - 
This  sweet  completeness  of  thy  life  it  is 
Which  saved  my  soul ;  no  other  peace  I  find. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

HER  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 
They  dance  so  light  along ; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 
Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles ! 

Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee ; 
She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 

The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise, 

But  dreams  the  while  of  one 
Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 

The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 


76  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

She  questions  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 

And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 
Bear  messages  to  him. 


She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 

Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  1 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town ! 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  shame 
Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine ; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 


AMY  WENTWORTH. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle  born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they- 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery  side, 
And  green  are  Elliot's  bowers ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Js  in  their  clanging  cry. 


78  0*77-  OF  THE  HEART. 

She  hums  a  song,  and  dreams  that  he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 

O,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 

And  high  and  low  mate  ill ; 
But  love  has  never  known  a  law 

Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 

JOHN  GREENLKAF  WHITTIKR. 


UN  BACIO  DATO  NON  £  MAI  PERDUTO 

BECAUSE  we  once  drove  together 
In  the  moonlight  over  the  snow, 
With  the  sharp  bells  ringing  their  tinkling  chime, 
So  many  a  year  ago, 

So,  now,  as  I  hear  them  jingle, 

The  winter  comes  back  again, 
Though  the  summer  stirs  in  the  heavy  trees, 

And  the  wild  rose  scents  the  lane. 

We  gather  our  furs  around  us, 

Our  faces  the  keen  air  stings, 
And  noiseless  we  fly  o'er  the  snow-hushed  world 

Almost  as  if  we  had  wings. 


UN  B A  CIO  DA  TO,  ETC. 

Enough  is  the  joy  of  mere  living, 
Enough  is  the  blood's  quick  thrill ; 

We  are  simply  happy,  I  care  not  why, 
We  are  happy  beyond  our  will 

The  trees  are  with  icicles  jewelled, 
The  walls  are  o'er-surfed  with  snow ; 

The  houses  with  marble-whiteness  are  roofed, 
In  their  windows  the  home-lights  glow. 


Through  the  tense,  clear  sky  above  us 

The  keen  stars  flash  and  gleam, 
And  wrapped  in  their  silent  shroud  of  snow 

The  broad  fields  lie  and  dream. 

And  jingling  with  low,  sweet  clashing 
Ring  the  bells  as  our  good  horse  goes, 

And  tossing  his  head,  from  his  nostrils'  red 
His  frosty  breath  he  blows. 

And  closely  you  nestle  against  me, 

While  around  your  waist  my  arm 
I  have  slipped  —  't  is  so  bitter,  bitter  cold  — 

It  is  only  to  keep  us  warm. 

We  talk,  and  then  we  are  silent ; 

And  suddenly  —  you  know  why — 
I  stooped  —  could  I  help  it  ?    You  lifted  your  face« 

We  kissed  —  there  was  nobody  nigh. 


8O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

I  never  told  it  —  did  you,  dear  ?  — 

From  that  day  unto  this ; 
But  my  memory  keeps  in  its  inmost  recess, 

Like  a  perfume,  that  innocent  kiss. 

I  dare  say  you  have  forgotten, 

JT  was  so  many  a  year  ago, 
Or  you  may  not  choose  to  remember  it, 

Time  may  have  changed  you  so. 

The  world  so  chills  us  and  kills  us, 

Perhaps  you  may  scorn  to  recall 
That  night,  with  its  innocent  impulse, 

Perhaps  you  '11  deny  it  all. 

But  if,  of  that  fresh  sweet  nature 

The  veriest  vestige  survive, 
You  remember  that  moment's  madness,  — 

You  remember  that  moonlight  drive. 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


THE   DOORSTEP. 

THE  conference-meeting  through  at  last, 
We  boys  around  the  vestry  waited 
To  see  the  girls  come  tripping  past, 
Like  snow-birds  willing  to  be  mated. 

Not  braver  he  that  leaps  the  wall 

By  level  musket-flashes  litten, 
Than  I,  that  stepped  before  them  all 

Who  longed  to  see  me  get  the  mitten. 


THE  DOORSTEP.  8 1 

But  no,  she  blushed  and  took  my  arm ! 

We  let  the  old  folks  have  the  highway, 
And  started  toward  the  Maple  Farm 

Along  a  kind  of  lover's  by-way. 

I  can't  remember  what  we  said, 
JT  was  nothing  worth  a  song  or  story; 

Yet  that  rude  path  by  which  we  sped 
Seemed  all  transformed  and  in  a  glory. 

The  snow  was  crisp  beneath  our  feet, 

The  moon  was  full,  the  fields  were  gleaming ; 

By  hood  and  tippet  sheltered  sweet, 
Her  face  with  youth  and  health  was  beaming. 

The  little  hand  outside  her  muff,  — 

O  sculptor,  if  you  could  but  mould  it!  — 

So  lightly  touched  my  jacket  cuff, 
To  keep  it  warm  I  had  to  hold  it. 

To  have  her  with  me  there  alone,  — 

'T  was  love  and  fear  and  triumph  blended. 

At  last  we  reached  the  worn  foot-stone 
Where  that  delicious  journey  ended. 

The  old  folks  too  were  almost  home ; 

Her  dimpled  hand  the  latches  fingered. 
We  heard  the  voices  nearer  come, 

Yet  on  the  doorstep  still  we  lingered. 
6 


82  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

She  shook  her  ringlets  from  her  hood, 
And  with  a  "  Thank  you,  Ned,"  dissembled; 

But  yet  I  knew  she  understood 
With  what  a  daring  wish  I  trembled. 

A  cloud  passed  kindly  overhead, 
The  moon  was  slyly  peeping  through  it, 

Yet  hid  its  face,  as  if  it  said, 
"  Come,  now  or  never !  do  it !  do  it!  " 

My  lips  till  then  had  only  known 
The  kiss  of  mother  and  of  sister  ; 

But  somehow,  full  upon  her  own 
Sweet,  rosy,  darling  mouth  —  I  kissed  her ! 

Perhaps  't  was  boyish  love  •,  yet  still, 

0  listless  woman,  weary  lover ! 

To  feel  once  more  that  fresh,  wild  thrill 

1  'd  give  —  but  who  can  live  youth  over  ? 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN, 


BEFORE   THE   GATE. 

THEY  gave  the  whole  long  day  to  idle  laughter, 
To  fitful  song  and  jest, 
To  moods  of  soberness  as  idle,  after, 
And  silences,  as  idle  too  as  the  rest. 


BEFORE    THE   GATE.  83 

But  when  at  last,  upon  their  way  returning, 

Taciturn,  late,  and  loath, 
Through  the  broad  meadow  in  the  sunset  burning, 

They  reached  the  gate,   one  fine  spell  hindered 
them  both. 

Her  heart  was  troubled  with  a  subtile  anguish 

Such  as  but  women  know 
That  wait,  and  lest  love  speak  or  speak  not  languish, 

And  what  they  would,  would  rather  they  would 
not  so. 

Till  he  said, —  man-like,  nothing  comprehending 

Of  all  the  wondrous  guile 
That  women  won  win  themselves  with,  and  bending 

Eyes  of  relentless  asking  on  her  the  while,— 

"  Ah,  if  beyond  this  gate  the  path  united 

Our  steps  as  far  as  death, 
And  I  might  open  it !  —  "     His  voice,  affrighted 

At  its  own  daring,  faltered  under  his  breath. 

Then  she  —  whom  both  his  faith  and  fear  enchanted 

Far  beyond  words  to  tell, 
Feeling  her  woman's  finest  wit  had  wanted 

The  art  he  had  that  knew  to  blunder  so  well  — 

Shyly  drew  near  a  little  step,  and  mocking, 

"  Shall  we  not  be  too  late 

For  tea  ?  "  she  said.    *  I  'm  quite  worn  out  with  walking. 
Yes,  thanks,  your  arm.     And  will  you  —  open  the 
gate?" 

WILLIAM  D.  HOWELLS. 


84  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


IN   LOVE'S   OWN   TIME. 

HAD  I  but  earlier  known  that  from  the  eyes 
Of  that  bright  soul  that  fires  me  like  the  sun, 
I  might  have  drawn  new  strength  my  race  to  run, 
Burning  as  burns  the  phoenix  ere  it  dies ; 

Even  as  the  stag  or  lynx  or  leopard  flies 
To  seek  his  pleasure  and  his  pain  to  shun, 
Each  word,  each  smile  of  her  would  I  have  won, 
Flying  where  now  sad  age  all  flight  denies. 

Yet  why  complain  ?  For  even  now  I  find 
In  that  glad  angel's  face,  so  full  of  rest, 
Health,  and  content,  heart's  ease  and  peace  of  mind. 

Perchance  I  might  have  been  less  simply  blest, 
Finding  her  sooner  :  if  't  is  age  alone 
That  lets  me  soar  with  her  to  seek  God's  throne. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


GARDEN-FAN  CI ES. 
THE  FLOWER'S  NAME. 

HERE  'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since : 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince ! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned, 
To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 


GARDEN-FANCIES.  8$ 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box  r 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  fiox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by ! 
She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  I  know ; 

But  yonder  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie ! 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name !  was  it  love,  or  praise  ? 

Speech  half-asleep,  or  song  half-awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell , 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase  ! 
But  do  not  detain  me  now ;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  forever  ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  't  is  that  you  blow  not, 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never ! 


86  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

For  while  thus  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 
Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 

Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle  — 
Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June  's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall  — 
Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


TRUE   LOVE. 

LET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove : 
O,  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 
That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose  worth 's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken. 
Love  's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 


THE  BROOK-SIDE.  87 


THE   BROOK-SIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brook-side, 
I  wandered  by  the  mill  ; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow  — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still. 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard- 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree : 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 
And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not  — 

The  night  came  on  alone  — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


88  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder  — 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind ; 
It  drew  me  nearer  —  nearer  — 

We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 

Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 


RICHARD  MONCKTON  MILNES. 


LOVE'S   JUSTIFICATION. 

IT  must  be  right  sometimes  to  entertain 
Chaste  love  with  hope  not  over-credulous : 
Since  if  all  human  loves  were  impious, 
Unto  what  end  did  God  the  world  ordain  ? 

If  I  love  thee  and  bend  beneath  thy  reign, 
'T  is  for  the  sake  of  beauty  glorious 
Which  in  thine  eyes  divine  is  stored  for  us, 
And  drives  all  evil  thought  from  its  domain. 

That  is  not  love  whose  tyranny  we  own 
In  loveliness  that  every  moment  dies; 
Which,  like  the  face  it  worships,  fades  away : 

True  love  is  thaV  which  the  pure  heart  hath  known, 
Which  alters  not  with  time  or  death's  decay, 
Yielding  on  earth  earnest  of  Paradise. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


THE  LOVER'S  NIGHT  THOUGHTS.      89 


A  FOREBODING. 

WHAT  were  the  whole  void  world,  if  thou  wert 
dead, 

Whose  briefest  absence  can  eclipse  my  day, 
And  make  the  hours  that  danced  with  Time  away 
Drag  their  funereal  steps  with  muffled  tread  ? 
Through  thee,  meseems,  the  very  rose  is  red, 
From  thee  draw  life  all  things  that  grow  not  gray, 
And  by  thy  force  the  happy  stars  are  sped. 
Thou  near,  the  hope  of  thee  to  overflow 
Fills  all  my  earth  and  heaven,  and  when  in  Spring, 
Ere  April  come,  the  birds  and  blossoms  know, 
And  grasses  brighten  round  her  feet  to  cling ; 
Nay,  and  this  hope  delights  all  nature  so 
That  the  dumb  turf  I  tread  on  seems  to  sing. 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


THE  LOVER'S  NIGHT  THOUGHTS. 

WEARY  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed, 
The  dear  repose  for  limbs  with  travel  tired ; 
But  then  begins  a  journey  in  my  head, 
To  work  my  mind,  when  body's  work 's  expired  : 
For  then  my  thoughts,  from  far  where  I  abide, 
Intend  a  zealous  pilgrimage  to  thee, 
And  keep  my  drooping  eyelids  open  wide, 
Looking  on  darkness  which  the  blind  do  see : 
Save  that  my  soul's  imaginary  sight 
Presents  thy  shadow  to  my  sightless  view, 


90  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Which,  like  a  jewel  hung  in  ghastly  night, 
Makes  black  night  beauteous  and  her  old  face  new. 
Lo  !  thus,  by  day  my  limbs,  by  night  my  mind, 
For  thee  and  for  myself  no  quiet  find. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE, 


NIGHT  THOUGHTS. 

TIS  sweeter  than  all  else  below, 
The  daylight  and  its  duties  done, 
To  fold  the  arms  for  rest,  and  so 

Relinquish  all  regards  but  one ; 
To  see  her  features  in  the  dark; 

To  lie  and  meditate  once  more, 
Some  grace  he  did  not  fully  mark, 

Some  tone  he  had  not  heard  before ; 
Then  from  beneath  his  head  to  take 

Her  notes,  her  picture,  and  her  glove, 
Put  there  for  joy  when  he  shall  wake, 

And  press  them  to  the  heart  of  love ; 
And  then  to  whisper  "Wife,"  and  pray 

To  live  so  long  as  not  to  miss 
That  unimaginable  day 

Which  farther  seems  the  nearer  't  is; 
And  still  from  joy's  unfathomed  well 

To  drink,  in  sleep,  while,  on  her  brow 
Of  innocence  ineffable, 

The  laughing  bridal  roses  blow. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


TO  LUCASTA.  91 


WITH  A  HAND-GLASS. 

A  PICTURE-FRAME  for  you  to  fill, 
A  paltry  setting  for  your  face, 
A  thing  that  has  no  worth  until 

You  lend  it  something  of  your  grace, 

I  send  (unhappy  I  that  sing 

Laid  by  awhile  upon  the  shelf) 
Because  I  would  not  send  a  thing 

Less  charming  than  you  are  yourself. 

And  happier  than  I,  alas ! 

(Dumb  thing,  I  envy  its  delight) 
'Twill  wish  you  well,  the  looking-glass, 

And  look  you  in  the  face  to-night. 

ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON. 


TO  LUCASTA. 

TELL  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 


92  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


TELEPATHY. 

"    A  ND  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting?" 
-t\     Nay,  how  can  you  ask  me,  sweet  ? 

All  day  my  pulse  had  been  beating 
The  tune  of  your  coming  feet. 

And  as  nearer  and  ever  nearer 

I  felt  the  throb  of  your  tread, 
To  be  in  the  world  grew  dearer, 

And  my  blood  ran  rosier  red. 

Love  called,  and  I  could  not  linger, 

But  sought  the  forbidden  tryst, 
As  music  follows  the  finger 

Of  the  dreaming  lutanist. 

And  though  you  had  said  it  and  said  it, 

"  We  must  not  be  happy  to-day," 
Was  I  not  wiser  to  credit 

The  fire  in  my  feet  than  your  nay  ? 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 


NEVER  LOVE   THEE  MORE."      93 


MY   LOVE. 

IF  on  the  clustering  curls  of  thy  dark  hair, 
And  the  pure  arching  of  thy  polished  brow, 
We  only  gaze,  we  fondly  dream  that  thou 
Art  one  of  those  bright  ministers  who  bear, 
Along  the  cloudless  bosom  of  the  air, 

Sweet  solemn  words,  to  which  our  spirits  bow,  — 
With  such  a  holy  smile  thou  lookest  now, 
And  art  so  soft  and  delicately  fair. 

A  veil  of  tender  light  is  mantling  o'er  thee ; 

Around  thy  opening  lips  young  loves  are  playing, 
And  crowds  of  youths,  in  passionate  thought  de- 
laying, 

Pause,  as  thou  movest  by  them,  to  adore  thee  ; 
By  many  a  sudden  blush  and  tear  betraying 
How  the  heart  trembles  when  it  bends  before  thee ! 
JAMES  GATES  PERCIVAL. 

"I'LL  NEVER  LOVE  THEE   MORE." 

MY  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 
That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy : 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 
I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 


94  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone  : 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  to  put  it  to  the  touch 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But,  if  no  faithless  action  stain 

Thy  love  and  constant  word, 
I  '11  make  thee  famous  by  my  pen, 

And  glorious  by  my  sword. 
I  '11  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

As  ne'er  were  known  before  ; 
I  '11  deck  and  crown  thy  head  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

MARQUIS  OF  MONTROSE. 


LOVE   CEREMONIOUS. 

KEEP  your  undrest,  familiar  style 
For  strangers,  but  respect  your  friend, 
Her  most,  whose  matrimonial  smile 

Is,  and  asks  honor  without  end. 
'T  is  found,  and  needs  it  must  so  be, 

That  life  from  love's  allegiance  flags, 
When  love  forgets  his  majesty 
In  sloth's  unceremonious  rags. 


O  FILIA  PULCHRA!  95 

Love  should  make  home  a  stately  Court : 

There  let  the  world's  rude,  hasty  ways 
Be  fashioned  to  a  loftier  port, 

And  learn  to  bow  and  stand  at  gaze ; 
And  let  the  sweet,  respective  sphere 

Of  personal  worship  there  obtain 
Circumference  for  moving  clear, 

None  treading  on  another's  train. 
This  makes  that  pleasures  do  not  cloy, 

And  dignifies  our  mortal  strife 
With  calmness  and  considerate  joy 

Befitting  our  immortal  life. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


O  FILIA  PULCHRA! 

HOW  your  sweet  face  revives  again 
The  dear  old  time,  my  Pearl, — 
If  I  may  use  the  pretty  name 
I  called  you  when  a  girl. 

You  are  so  young;  while  Time  of  me 

Has  made  a  cruel  prey, 
It  has  forgotten  you,  nor  swept 

One  grace  of  youth  away. 

The  same  sweet  face,  the  same  sweet  smile, 

The  same  lithe  figure,  too !  — 
What  did  you  say  ?     It  was  perchance 

Your  mother  that  I  knew  ? 


96  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Ah,  yes,  of  course,  it  must  have  been, 

And  yet  the  same  you  seem, 
And  for  a  moment,  all  these  years 

Fled  from  me  like  a  dream. 

Then  what  your  mother  would  not  give, 

Permit  me,  dear,  to  take, 
The  old  man's  privilege  —  a  kiss  — 

Just  for  your  mother's  sake. 

WILLIAM  WETMORE  STORY. 


UPON   JULIA'S    CLOTHES. 

WHEN  AS  in  silk  my  Julia  goes, 
Then,  then,  methinks,  how  sweetly  flows 
That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 
Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes,  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free  : 
Oh,  how  that  glittering  taketh  me  ! 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

THE   LETTERS. 

STILL  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane, 
A  black  yew  gloonVd  the  stagnant  air, 
I  peer'd  athwart  the  chancel  pane 

And  saw  the  altar  cold  and  bare. 
A  clog  of  lead  was  round  my  feet, 
A  band  of  pain  across  my  brow; 
"  Cold  altar,  Heaven  and  earth  shall  meet 
Before  you  hear  my  marriage  vow." 


THE  LETTERS.  97 

I  turn'd  and  humm'd  a  bitter  song 

That  mock'd  the  wholesome  human  heart, 
And  then  we  met  in  wrath  and  wrong, 

We  met,  but  only  meant  to  part. 
Full  cold  my  greeting  was  and  dry ; 

She  faintly  smiled,  she  hardly  moved  j 
I  saw  with  half-unconscious  eye 

She  wore  the  colors  I  approved. 

She  took  the  little  ivory  chest, 

With  half  a  sigh  she  turn'd  the  key, 
Then  raised  her  head  with  lips  comprest, 

And  gave  my  letters  back  to  me. 
And  gave  the  trinkets  and  the  rings, 

My  gifts,  when  gifts  of  mine  could  please : 
As  looks  a  father  on  the  things 

Of  his  dead  son,  I  look'd  on  these. 

She  told  me  all  her  friends  had  said  ; 

I  raged  against  the  public  liar ; 
She  talk'd  as  if  her  love  were  dead, 

But  in  my  words  were  seeds  of  fire. 
"  No  more  of  love  ;  your  sex  is  known : 

I  never  will  be  twice  deceived. 
Henceforth  I  trust  the  man  alone, 

The  woman  cannot  be  believed. 

"  Thro'  slander,  meanest  spawn  of  Hell 
(And  woman's  slander  is  the  worst), 

And  you,  whom  once  I  loved  so  well, 
Thro'  you,  my  life  will  be  accurst.*1 
7 


98  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

I  spoke  with  heart,  and  heat  and  force, 
I  shook  her  breast  with  vague  alarms  — 

Like  torrents  from  a  mountain  source 
We  rushed  into  each  other's  arms. 

We  parted :  sweetly  gleam'd  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue ; 
Low  breezes  fann'd  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I  drew. 
The  very  graves  appear'd  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadow'd  swells  ; 
"Dark  porch,"  I  said,  "and  silent  aisle, 

There  comes  a  sound  of  marriage  bells." 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


JENNY  KISSED   ME. 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 
Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I  'm  weary,  say  I  'm  sad ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me ; 
Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 

Jenny  kissed  me ! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


NO   TIME    TO  HATE.  99 


SINCE   THERE'S    NO   HELP. 

SINCE  there 's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part ! 
Nay,  I  have  done  ;  you  get  no  more  of  me ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  clearly  I  myself  can  free. 
Shake  hands  forever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen,  on  either  of  our  brows, 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  passion  speechless  lies, 

When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes; 

Now,  if  thou  wouldst,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 

From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


NO   TIME   TO   HATE. 

I   HAD  no  time  to  hate,  because 
The  grave  would  hinder  me, 
And  life  was  not  so  ample  I 
Could  finish  enmity. 

Nor  had  I  time  to  love ;  but  since 
Some  industry  must  be, 
The  little  toil  of  love,  I  thought, 
Was  large  enough  for  me. 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


IOO  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


A  WOMAN'S  ANSWER. 


I   WILL  not  let  you  say  a  woman's  part 
Must  be  to  give  exclusive  love  alone ; 
Dearest,  although  I  love  you  so,  my  heart 
Answers  a  thousand  claims  besides  your  own. 

I  love,  —  what  do  I  not  love  ?    Earth  and  air 
Find  space  within  my  heart,  and  myriad  things 

You  would  not  deign  to  heed  are  cherished  there, 
And  vibrate  on  its  very  inmost  strings. 

I  love  the  summer,  with  her  ebb  and  flow 
Of  light  and  warmth  and  music,  that  have  nursed 

Her  tender  buds  to  blossoms  ;  .  .  .  and  you  know 
It  was  in  summer  that  I  saw  you  first. 

I  love  the  winter  dearly  too,  .  .  .  but  then 
I  owe  it  so  much  ;  on  a  winter's  day, 

Bleak,  cold  and  stormy,  you  returned  again, 
When  you  had  been  those  weary  months  away. 

I  love  the  stars  like  friends ;  so  many  nights 
I  gazed  at  them,  when  you  were  far  from  me, 

Till  I  grew  blind  with  tears ;  .  .  .  those  far-off  lights 
Could  watch  you,  whom  I  longed  in  vain  to  see. 


A    WOMAN'S  ANSWER.  „  IO 

I  love  the  flowers  ;  happy  hours  lie 

Shut  up  within  their  petals  close  and  fast : 

You  have  forgotten,  dear ;  but  they  and  I 
Keep  every  fragment  of  the  golden  Past. 

I  love,  too,  to  be  loved ;  all  loving  praise 
Seems  like  a  crown  upon  my  life,  —  to  make 

It  better  worth  the  giving,  and  to  raise 
Still  nearer  to  your  own  the  heart  you  take. 

I  love  all  good  and  noble  souls ;  —  I  heard 
One  speak  of  you  but  lately,  and  for  days, 

Only  to  think  of  it,  my  soul  was  stirrred 
In  tender  memory  of  such  generous  praise. 


I  love  all  those  who  love  you,  all  who  owe 
Comfort  to  you ;  and  I  can  find  regret 

Even  for  those  poorer  hearts  who  once  could  know, 
And  once  could  love  you,  and  can  now  forget. 

Well,  is  my  heart  so  narrow,  —  I,  who  spare 
Love  for  all  these  ?    Do  I  not  even  hold 

My  favorite  books  in  special  tender  care, 
And  prize  them  as  a  miser  does  his  gold  ? 


The  poets  that  you  used  to  read  to  me 
While  summer  twilights  faded  in  the  sky ; 

But  most  of  all  I  think  Aurora  Leigh 
Because  —  because  —  do  you  remember  why  ? 


1C'.',       :   /,  .     OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Will  you  be  jealous  ?     Did  you  guess  before 
I  loved  so  many  things?  —  Still  you  the  best;  — 

Dearest,  remember  that  I  love  you  more, 
O  more  a  thousand  times,  than  all  the  rest ! 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 


A   REMINISCENCE. 

"T^ WAS  April ;  't  was  Sunday  ;  the  day  was  fair,  — 

Yes  !  sunny  and  fair. 
And  how  happy  was  I ! 
You  wore  the  white  dress  you  loved  to  wear ; 
And  two  little  flowers  were  hid  in  your  hair  — 

Yes  !  in  your  hair  — 

On  that  day  — gone  by  ! 

We  sat  on  the  moss ;  it  was  shady  and  dry,  — 

Yes !  shady  and  dry  ; 

And  we  sat  in  the  shadow. 
We  looked  at  the  leaves,  we  looked  at  the  sky, 
We  looked  at  the  brook  which  bubbled  near  by,  — 

Yes,  bubbled  near  by, 

Through  the  quiet  meadow. 

A  bird  sang  on  the  swinging  vine,  — 

Yes,  on  the  vine,  — 

And  then,  —  sang  not ; 
I  took  your  little  white  hand  in  mine ; 
'T  was  April ;  't  was  Sunday ;  't  was  warm  sunshine,  — 

Yes,  warm  sunshine : 

Have  you  forgot  ? 

Translation:  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 


"  WHEN  YOU  ARE  OLD:'  103 


LOVE   FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

IF  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
"  I  love  her  for  her  smile,  .  .  her  look,  .  .  her  way 
Of  speaking  gently,  .  .  for  a  trick  of  thought 
That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  "  — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 
Be  changed  or  change  for  thee,  —  and  love  so  wrought 
May  be  un wrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry : 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mays't  love  on  through  love's  eternity. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


"WHEN   YOU   ARE   OLD." 

WHEN  you  are  old,  and  I  am  passed  away  — 
Passed,  and  your  face,  your  golden  face  is 

gray  — 

I  think  whate'er  the  end,  this  dream  of  mine, 
Comforting  you,  a  friendly  star  will  shine 
Down  the  dim  slope  where  still  you  stumble  and  stray. 

So  may  it  be  :  that  no  dead  Yesterday, 
No  sad-eyed  ghost,  but  generous  and  gay, 
May  serve  you  memories  like  almighty  wine, 
When  you  are  old. 


104  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Dear  Heart,  it  shall  be  so.     Under  the  sway 

Of  death  the  past's  enormous  disarray 

Lies  hushed  and  dark.    Yet  though  there  come  no 

sign, 

Live  on  well  pleased :  immortal  and  divine, 
Love  shall  still  tend  you,  as  God's  angels  may, 
When  you  are  old. 

WILLIAM  ERNEST  HENLEY. 


IDEAL  LOVE. 

HE  who  loves  truly,  grows  in  force  and  might  j 
For  beauty  and  the  image  of  his  love 
Expand  his  spirit :  whence  he  burns  to  prove 
Adventures  high,  and  hold  all  perils  light. 

If  thus  a  lady's  love  dilate  the  knight, 

What  glories  and  what  joy  all  joys  above 
Shall  not  the  heavenly  splendor,  joined  by  love 
Unto  our  flesh-imprisoned  soul,  excite? 

Once  freed,  she  would  become  one  sphere  immense 
Of  love,  power,  wisdom,  filled  with  Deity, 
Elate  with  wonders  of  the  eternal  Sense. 

But  we  like  sheep  and  wolves  war  ceaselessly: 
That  love  we  never  seek,  that  light  intense, 
Which  would  exalt  us  to  infinity. 

MICHAEL  ANGELO. 


FIRST    WORDS   OF    LOVE. 
From  painting  by  C.  £.  Perugini. 


LETTICE.  105 


LETTICE. 

I  SAID  to  Lettice,  our  sister  Lettice, 
While  drooped  and  glistened  her  eyelash  brown, 
"  Your  man 's  a  poor  man,  a  cold  and  dour  man, 

There 's  many  a  better  about  our  town." 
She  smiled  securely  —  "  He  loves  me  purely : 
A  true  heart 's  safe,  both  in  smile  or  frown  • 
And  nothing  harms  me  while  his  love  warms  me, 
Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 

"  He  comes  of  strangers,  and  they  are  rangers, 

And  ill  to  trust,  girl,  when  out  of  sight : 
Fremd  folk  may  blame  ye,  and  e'en  defame  ye, — 

A  gown  oft  handled  looks  seldom  white." 
She  raised  serenely  her  eyelids  queenly,  — 

"  My  innocence  is  my  whitest  gown; 
No  harsh  tongue  grieves  me  while  he  believes  me, 

Whether  the  world  go  up  or  down." 

"  Your  man 's  a  frail  man,  was  ne'er  a  hale  man, 

And  sickness  knocketh  at  every  door, 
And  death  comes  making  bold  hearts  cower,  break- 
ing-" 

Our  Lettice  trembled,  — but  once,  no  more. 
"  If  death  should  enter,  smite  to  the  centre 

Our  poor  home  palace,  all  crumbling  down, 
He  cannot  fright  us,  nor  disunite  us, 

Life  bears  Love's  cross,  death  brings  Love's  crown." 
DINAH  MULOCK  CRAIK. 


106  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


TO   E.   B.   B. 

GOD  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 

This  to  you  —  yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

Ah,  but  that 's  the  world's  side, —  there 's  the  wonder, — 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you. 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you, 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of, 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

Oh,  their  Rafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song,  —  and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it ; 
Drew  one  angel,  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  ! 

ROBERT  BROWNING, 


AT  LAST. 

IN  the  day  the  sun  is  darkened, 
And  the  moon  as  blood, 
And  the  earth  is  swept  to  ruin 
On  the  avenging  flood, 


THE   COURSE  OF  LOVE.  IO/ 

Come  to  me —    Then  give  thyself 

To  my  arms  and  kiss ; 
We  shall  not  know  that  all  is  lost, 

So  great  shall  be  our  bliss. 

STOPFORD  BROOKE. 


SONG. 

IN  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garnered  fruit 
That,  rotting  inward,  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping,  — let  it  go : 
But  shall  it  ?   Answer,  darling ;  answer,  No. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all,  or  all  in  all. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE   COURSE   OF   LOVE. 

HER  father  loved  me ;  oft  invited  me ; 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year,  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  passed. 


108  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

I  ran  it  through,  even  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. ... 

These  things  to  hear 
Would  Desdemona  seriously  incline  : 
But  still  the  house-affairs  would  draw  her  thence  : 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  despatch, 
She  'Id  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which  I  observing, 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart 
That  I  would  all  my  pilgrimage  dilate, 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  intentively  :  I  did  consent, 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears, 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  suffered.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs : 
She  swore,  in  faith,   't  was  strange,  't  was  passing 

strange, 

'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it ;  yet  she  wished 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man :  she  thanked 

me, 

And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     Upon  this  hint  I  spake  : 
She  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed, 
And  I  loved  her  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  used : 
Here  comes  the  lady ;  let  her  witness  it. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE. 


SOME  DAY  OF  DAYS.  IOQ 


SOME   DAY  OF   DAYS. 

SOME  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street 
With  idle,  heedless  pace, 
Unlocking  for  such  grace, 
I  sjiall  behold  your  face  ! 
Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  thus  may  we  meet. 

Perchance  the  sun  may  shine  from  skies  of  May, 

Or  winter's  icy  chill 

Touch  whitely  vale  and  hill. 

What  matter?     I  shall  thrill 
Through  every  vein  with  summer  on  that  day. 

Once  more  life's  perfect  youth  will  all  come  back, 

And  for  a  moment  there 

I  shall  stand  fresh  and  fair, 

And  drop  the  garment  care , 
Once  more  my  perfect  youth  will  nothing  lack. 

I  shut  my  eyes  now,  thinking  how  't  will  be,  — 

How  face  to  face  each  soul 

Will  slip  its  long  control, 

Forget  the  dismal  dole 
Of  dreary  Fate's  dark  separating  sea ; 

And  glance  to  glance  and  hand  to  hand  in  greeting, 

The  past  with  all  its  fears, 

Its  silence  and  its  tears, 

Its  lonely  yearning  years, 
Shall  vanish  in  the  moment  of  that  meeting. 

NORA  PERRY. 


IIO  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE   PARADOX. 

HOW  strange  a  thing  a  Lover  seems 
To  animals  that  do  not  love ! 
Look  where  he  walks  and  talks  in  dreams, 

And  flouts  us  with  his  Lady's  glove  ! 
How  foreign  is  the  garb  he  wears, 

And  how  his  great  devotion  mocks 
Our  poor  propriety,  and  scares 

The  undevout  with  paradox  ! 
His  soul,  through  scorn  of  worldly  care, 

And  great  extremes  of  sweet  and  gall, 
And  musing  much  on  all  that 's  fair, 

Grows  witty  and  fantastical ; 
He  sobs  his  joy  and  sings  his  grief, 

And  evermore  finds  such  delight 
In  simply  picturing  his  relief, 

That  'plaining  seems  to  cure  his  plight 
He  makes  his  sorrow  when  there 's  none ; 

His  fancy  blows  both  cold  and  hot ; 
Next  to  the  wish  that  she  '11  be  won, 

His  first  hope  is  that  she  may  not. 
He  sues,  yet  deprecates  consent ; 

Would  she  be  captured,  she  must  fly ; 
She  looks  too  happy  and  content, 

For  whose  least  pleasure  he  would  die. 
Oh,  cruelty,  she  cannot  care 

For  one  to  whom  she 's  always  kind ! 
He  says  he  's  naught,  but  oh,  despair, 

If  he 's  nof  Jove  to  her  fond  mind ! 


THE  PARADOX.  Ill 

He 's  jealous  if  she  pets  a  dove, 

She  must  be  his  with  all  her  soul; 
Yet 't  is  a  postulate  in  love 

That  part  is  greater  than  the  whole, 
And  all  his  apprehension's  stress, 

When  he  's  with  her,  regards  her  hair, 
Her  hand,  a  ribbon  of  her  dress,  — 

As  if  his  life  were  only  there. 
Because  she  's  constant,  he  will  change, 

And  kindest  glances  coldly  meet; 
And  all  the  time  he  seems  so  strange, 

His  soul  is  fawning  at  her  feet. 
Of  smiles  and  simple  heaven  grown  tired, 

He  wickedly  provokes  her  tears ; 
And  when  she  weeps,  as  he  desired, 

Falls  slain  with  ecstasies  of  fears ; 
He  finds,  although  she  has  no  fault, 

Except  the  folly  to  be  his ; 
He  worships  her  the  more  to  exalt 

The  profanation  of  a  kiss. 
Health  's  his  disease ;  he  's  never  well 

But  when  his  paleness  shames  her  rose ; 
His  faith 's  a  rock-built  citadel, 

Its  sign  a  flag  that  each  way  blows  ; 
His  o'erfed  fancy  frets  and  fumes, 

And  Love  in  him  is  fierce  like  Hate, 
And  ruffles  his  ambrosial  plumes 

Against  the  bars  of  time  and  fate. 

COVENTRY  PATMOHE. 


112  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


PARTED. 

DO  not  write.    I  am  sad,  and  would  my  life  were 
o'er. 
A  summer  without  thee?     Oh,  night  of  starless 

gloom ! 

I  fold  the  idle  arms  that  cannot  clasp  thee  more ; 
To  knock  at  my  heart's  door  were  like  knocking  on 
a  tomb. 

Do  not  write. 

Do  not  write.     We  will  learn  unto  ourselves  to  die. 
Ask  God,  or  ask  thyself  of  my  love,  if  thou  wouldst 

know; 

But  to  hear  thee  calling  far  away  and  calling  tenderly, 
Were  to  hear  the  songs  of  Heaven  afar  and  never 
hope  to  go. 

Do  not  write. 

Do  not  write  ;  for  I  fear  thee.     I  do  not  dare  to  think 
How  thy  voice  was  wont  to  sound,  lest  it  seem  to 

call  anew. 

Do  not  show  living  water  to  one  who  cannot  drink ; 
The  writing  of  a  friend  is  a  likeness  passing  true. 
Do  not  write. 

Do  not  write  those  sweet  words,  for  I  may  not  read 

them  now ; 
They  would  flood  my  foolish  heart  with  a  deceitful 

bliss. 


HER  HELPFULNESS.  113 

They  are  brilliant  with  thy  smile,  with  thy  tenderness 

aglow ; 

I   could  not   choose  but  dream  thou  hadst    sealed 
them  with  a  kiss. 

Do  not  write. 

MADAME  DESBORDES-VALMORE. 


SPECULATIVE. 

OTHERS  may  need  new  life  in  Heaven ; 
Man,  Nature,  Art  made  new,  assume ! 
Man  with  new  mind  old  sense  to  leaven, 
Nature  —  new  light  to  clear  old  gloom, 
Art  that  breaks  bounds,  gets  soaring  room. 

I  shall  pray :  "  Fugitive  as  precious  — 
Minutes  which  passed,  —  return,  remain ! 

Let  earth's  old  life  once  more  enmesh  us, 
You  with  old  pleasure,  me  —  old  pain, 

So  we  but  meet  nor  part  again  ! " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


HER  HELPFULNESS. 

YEA,  let  me  praise  my  lady  whom  I  love, 
Likening  her  unto  the  lily  and  rose  : 
Brighter  than  morning  star  her  visage  glows ; 
She  is  beneath  even  as  her  Saint  above  : 
She  is  as  the  air  in  summer  which  God  wove 
8 


114  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Of  purple  and  vermilion  glorious  ; 
As  gold  and  jewels  richer  than  man  knows. 
Love's  self,  being  love  for  her,  must  holier  prove. 
Ever  as  she  walks  she  hath  a  sober  grace, 

Making  bold  men  abashed  and  good  men  glad ; 

If  she  delight  thee  not,  thy  heart  must  err. 
No  man  dare  look  on  her,  his  thoughts  being  base ; 
Nay,  let  me  say  even  more  than  I  have  said : 

No  man  could  think  base  thoughts  who  looked 
on  her. 

DANTE  :    Vita  Nuova. 


THE  FIRST   LESSON. 

NOT  in  this  world  to  see  his  face 
Sounds  long,  until  I  read  the  place 
Where  this  is  said  to  be 
But  just  the  primer  to  a  life 
Unopened,  rare,  upon  the  shelf 
Clasped  yet  to  him  and  me. 

And  yet,  my  primer  suits  me  so 
I  would  not  choose  a  book  to  know 
Than  that,  be  sweeter  wise ; 
Might  some  one  else  so  learned  be, 
And  leave  me  just  my  ABC, 
Himself  could  have  the  skies. 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


THE    WEDDING-DAY.  115 


WHO   KNOW   NOT   LOVE. 

AH  !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles. 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  lips 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love  — 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much. 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim  wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

Oh,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  by  night. 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


THE  WEDDING-DAY. 

OTRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 
Is  music  more  than  any  song. 


Il6  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 
That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower : 


On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 
And  then  on  thee ;  they  meet  thy  look, 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  Paradise. 

But  now  set  out;  the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear : 

For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 
That  watched  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm, 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 
Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.     The  ring  is  on, 
The  "wilt  thou  "  answered,  and  again 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  asked,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will "  has  made  ye  one. 


THE    WEDDING-DAY.  1 1/ 

Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 

Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 

By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 
The  names  are  signed,  and  overhead 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 
The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour  !  and  happier  hours 
Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them,  —  maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 

O  happy  hour  !  behold  the  bride 
With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

But  they  must  go ;  the  time  draws  on, 
And  those  white-favored  horses  wait ; 
They  rise,  but  linger,  it  is  late ; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 
From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  looked,  and  what  he  said ; 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three  times  three, 

And  last  the  dance ;  till  I  retire  : 
Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire : 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 

Till  over  down  and  over  dale 

All  night  the  shining  vapor  sail 
And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  through  the  hills. 

And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 
With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendor  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  HOUSE.  1 19 

TO  A   DAUGHTER   ON   HER  MARRIAGE. 
FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 

BE  happy  now  with  him,  and  love  him  who  loves 
thee; 

Adieu!  our  treasure  thou  hast  been,^/j-  henceforth  be. 
From  home,  yet  to  thy  home,  O  darling  child !  depart ; 
Take  with  thee  all  the  joy  —  leave  us  the  heavy  heart ! 

We  fain  would  keep  thee  here,  yet  there  for  thee  they 

wait; 
Wife,  daughter,  angel,  child,  —  assume  thy  twofold 

state; 

Leave  a  regret  for  us,  take  them  a  hope  the  while ; 
Not  without  tears  go  forth,  but  enter  with  a  smile  ! 

SAMUEL  LONGFELLOW. 

AN  ANGEL  IN   THE   HOUSE. 

HOW  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright, 
Or  dying  of  the  dreadful  beauteous  sight, 
An  angel  came  to  us,  and  we  could  bear 
To  see  him  issue  from  the  silent  air 
At  evening  in  our  room,  and  bend  on  ours 
His  divine^  eye^  and  bring  us  from  his  bowers 
N'e^s  of 'dear  friends,  and  children  who  have  never 
Been  dead  indeed —  as  we  shall  know  forever. 


I2O  I     OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Alas !  we  think  not  what  we  daily  see 
About  our  hearths,  —  angels  that  are  to  be, 
Or  may  be  if  they  will ;   and  we  prepare 
Their  souls  and  hours  to  meet  in  happy  air,  — 
A  child,  a  friend,  a  wife,  whose  soft  heart  sings 
In  unison  with  ours,  breeding  its  future  wings. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


A  WEDDING   SONG. 
JUNE  28,  1865. 

TWO  roses  growing  on  a  single  tree, 
Two  faces  bending  o'er  a  silver  spring, 
Two  pairs  of  eyes  that  their  own  image  see, 
And  set  the  heavens  within  a  little  ring, 
Two  children  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours, 
Linked  by  the  marriage  powers. 

Undo  the  things  from  off  your  feet,  — 
This  spot  at  least  is  holy  ground. 
The  solitude  is  wild  and  sweet, 
Where  no  base  thing  is  found. 
There  watch,  or  wander  in  that  Paradise 
Till  soft  moon-rise. 

Sink  through  the  soundless  world  of  dreams, 
Or  climb  the  secret  stairs  of  bliss, 
And  tiptoe  stand  where  brightest  gleams 
The  heaven  of  heavens  within  a  kiss ; 


THE  NEWLY  WEDDED.  121 

Sleep  through  the  soft  hours  of  rosy  morn; 
Urania,  be  born ! 

Sleep  while  the  moist  star  trembles  in  the  dews, 
And  when  in  sunrise  gleams  the  lake  of  glass  ; 
Sleep  while  the  heavens  are  interchanging  hues, 
And  Saturn's  tear  "  rolls  down  the  blade  of  grass ; " 
Wake  when  the  birds  are  singing  in  the  trees, 
And  sing  like  these. 

JOHN  SAVARY. 


THE   NEWLY  WEDDED. 

NOW  the  rite  is  duly  done, 
Now  the  word  is  spoken, 
And  the  spell  has  made  us  one 
Which  may  ne'er  be  broken  : 
Rest  we,  dearest,  in  our  home,  — 

Roam  we  o'er  the  heather, — 
We  shall  rest,  and  we  shall  roam, 
Shall  we  not?  together. 

From  this  hour  the  summer  rose 

Sweeter  breathes  to  charm  us ; 
From  this  hour  the  winter  snows 

Lighter  fall  to  harm  us : 
Fair  or  foul  —  on  land  or  sea  — 

Come  the  wind  or  weather, 
Best  or  worst,  whate'er  they  be, 

We  shall  share  together. 


122  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Death,  who  friend  from  friend  can  part, 

Brother  rend  from  brother, 
Shall  but  link  us,  heart  and  heart, 

Closer  to  each  other : 
We  will  call  his  anger  play, 

Deem  his  dart  a  feather, 
When  we  meet  him  on  our  way 

Hand  in  hand  together. 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRABD 


A  WEDDING   SONG. 

I  SAID  :  "  My  heart,  now  let  us  sing  a  song 
For  a  fair  lady  on  her  wedding-day ; 
Some  solemn  hymn  or  pretty  roundelay, 
That  shall  be  with  her  as  she  goes  along 
To  meet  her  joy,  and  for  her  happy  feet 
Shall  make  a  pleasant  music,  low  and  sweet." 

Then  said  my  heart:  "  It  is  right  bold  of  thee 
To  think  that  any  song  that  we  could  sing 
Would  for  this  lady  be  an  offering 

Meet  for  such  gladness  as  hers  needs  must  be, 
What  time  she  goes  to  don  her  bridal  ring, 
And  her  own  heart  makes  sweetest  carolling." 

And  so  it  is  that  with  my  lute  unstrung, 
Lady,  I  come  to  greet  thy  wedding-day  ; 
But  once,  methinks,  I  heard  a  poet  say 

The  sweetest  songs  remain  for  aye  unsung. 


THE  DAY-DREAM—  THE  DEPARTURE.   123 

So  mine,  unsung,  at  thy  dear  feet  I  lay, 
And  with  a  "  Peace  be  with  thee !  "  go  my  way. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


THE   DAY-DREAM  — THE   DEPARTURE. 

AND  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant, 
And  round  her  waist  she  felt  it  fold, 
And  far  across  the  hills  they  went 

In  that  new  world  which  is  the  old : 
Across  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
And  deep  into  the  dying  day 

The  happy  princess  followed  him. 

"  I  'd  sleep  another  hundred  years, 

O  love,  for  such  another  kiss  ; " 
"  Oh,  wake  forever,  love,"  she  hears, 

"  O  love,  't  was  such  as  this  and  this." 
And  o  'er  them  many  a  sliding  star, 

And  many  a  merry  wind  was  borne, 
And,  streamed  through  many  a  golden  bar, 

The  twilight  melted  into  morn. 

"  O  eyes  long  laid  in  happy  sleep  !  " 
"  O  happy  sleep,  that  lightly  fled  ! " 

**  O  happy  kiss,  that  woke  thy  sleep !  " 
"  O  love,  thy  kiss  would  wake  the  dead !  " 


124  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  o'er  them  many  a  flowing  range 
Of  vapor  buoyed  the  crescent  bark, 

And,  rapt  through  many  a  rosy  change, 
The  twilight  died  into  the  dark. 

"  A  hundred  summers  !  can  it  be  ? 

And  whither  goest  thou,  tell  me  where  ?  " 
"  Oh,  seek  my  father's  court  with  me, 

For  there  are  greater  wonders  there." 
And  o'er  the  hills,  and  far  away 

Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 
Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day, 

Through  all  the  world  she  followed  him. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


WHEN   SHE   COMES   HOME. 

WHEN  she  comes  home   again !     A  thousand 
ways 

I  fashion,  to  myself,  the  tenderness 
Of  my  glad  welcome  :  I  shall  tremble  —  yes ; 
And  touch  her  as  when  first  in  the  old  days 

I  touched  her  girlish  hand,  nor  dared  upraise 
Mine  eyes,  such  was  my  faint  heart's  sweet  distress. 
Then  silence,  and  the  perfume  of  her  dress  : 
The  room  will  sway  a  little,  and  a  haze 

Cloy  eyesight  —  soul-sight,  even  —  for  a  space : 
And  tears,  —  yes;  and  the  ache  here  in  the  throat, 
To  know  that  I  so  ill  deserve  the  place 

Her  arms  made  for  me  ;  and  the  sobbing  note 


UNKIND    WORDS. 


I  stay  with  kisses,  ere  the  tearful  face 
Again  is  hidden  in  the  old  embrace. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 

TWO    TRUTHS. 

"  "p\ARLING,"  he  said,  "I  never  meant 
J— /     To  hurt  you  ;  "  and  his  eyes  were  wet. 

"  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world  : 
Am  I  to  blame  if  I  forget?  " 

"  Forgive  my  selfish  tears ! "  she  cried, 

"  Forgive  !  I  knew  that  it  was  not 
Because  you  meant  to  hurt  me,  sweet,  — 

I  knew  it  was  that  you  forgot." 

But  all  the  same,  deep  in  her  heart 
Rankled  this  thought,  and  rankles  yet,  — 

"  When  love  is  at  its  best,  one  loves 
So  much  that  he  cannot  forget." 

H.  H.  JACKSON 

UNKIND   WORDS. 

IF  I  had  known  in  the  morning 
How  wearily  all  the  day 
The  words  unkind 
Would  trouble  your  mind 
That  I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling, 


126  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Nor  given  you  needless  pain ; 

But  we  vex  our  own 

With  look  and  tone, 
We  might  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 
You  give  me  a  kiss  of  peace, 

Yet  it  well  might  be 

That  never  for  me 
The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease  ! 
How  many  go  forth  in  the  morning 
Who  never  come  home  at  night ! 

And  hearts  have  been  broken 

For  harsh  words  spoken, 
That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 

We  have  careful  thought  for  the  stranger, 
And  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest ; 
But  oft  for  our  own 
The  bitter  tone, 

Though  we  love  our  own  the  best. 
Ah,  lips  with  the  curve  impatient ! 
Ah,  brow  with  the  shade  of  scorn ! 
'T  were  a  cruel  fate 
Were  the  night  too  late 
To  undo  the  work  of  morn. 

ANON. 


SUN  AND  RAIN. 


SUN   AND   RAIN. 

A  YOUNG  wife  stood  at  the  lattice-pane, 
In  a  study  sad  and  "  brown," 
Watching  the  dreary  ceaseless  rain 
Steadily  pouring  down : 

Drip,  drip,  drip ! 
It  kept  on  its  tireless  play ; 
And  the  poor  little  woman  sighed,  a  Ah  me ! 
What  a  wretched,  weary  day !  " 

An  eager  hand  at  the  door, 

A  step  as  of  one  in  haste, 
A  kiss  on  her  lips  once  more, 

And  an  arm  around  her  waist : 
Throb,  throb,  throb ! 

Went  her  little  heart  grateful  and  gay, 
As  she  thought,  with  a  smile,  "  Well  after  all, 

It  is  n't  so  dull  a  day!" 

Forgot  was  the  plashing  rain 

And  the  lowering  skies  above, 
For  the  sombre  room  was  lighted  again 
By  the  blessed  sun  of  love : 

"  Love,  love,  love  ! " 
Ran  the  little  wife's  murmured  lay ; 
"  Without,  it  may  threaten  and  frown  if  it  will ; 
Within  what  a  golden  day  I " 

ANON. 


128  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


HOME   SONG. 

STAY,  stay  at  home,  my  heart  and  rest; 
Home-keeping  hearts  are  happiest, 
For  those  that  wander  they  know  not  where 
Are  full  of  trouble  and  full  of  care : 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Weary  and  homesick  and  distressed, 
They  wander  east,  they  wander  west, 
And  are  baffled  and  beaten  and  blown  about 
By  the  winds  of  the  wilderness  of  doubt : 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

Then  stay  at  home,  my  heart,  and  rest; 
The  bird  is  safest  in  its  nest ; 
O'er  all  that  flutter  their  wings  and  fly 
A  hawk  is  hovering  in  the  sky : 
To  stay  at  home  is  best. 

ANON, 


THE  OLDEST  STORY. 

UNDER  the  coverlet's  snowy  fold 
The  tiniest  stir  that  ever  was  seen, 
And  the  tiniest  sound,  as  if  fairy  folk 
Were  cuddling  under  a  leaf,  I  ween. 


LOVE    AND    INNOCENCE. 
From  painting  by  L.  Perrault. 


THE  OLDEST  STORY.  12$ 

That  is  the  baby :  he  came  to  town 

Only  a  day  or  two  ago  ; 
But  he  looks  as  wise  as  if  he  knew 

All  that  a  baby  can  ever  know. 


There  he  lies  in  a  little  heap, 

As  soft  as  velvet,  as  warm  as  toast, 
As  rosy-red  as  the  harvest  moon 

Which  I  saw  so  big  on  the  hazy  coast. 

Hear  him  gurgle  and  sputter  and  sigh, 
As  if  his  dear  little  heart  would  break, 

And  scold  away  as  if  all  the  world 

Were  only  meant  for  his  littleness'  sake. 

Blink,  little  eyes,  at  the  strange  new  light ; 

Hark,  little  ears,  at  the  strange  new  sound : 
Wonderful  things  shall  you  see  and  hear 

As  the  days  and  the  months  and  the  years  go  round 

Hardly  you  seem  a  Life  at  all ; 

Only  a  Something  with  hands  and  feet, 
Only  a  Feeling  that  things  are  warm, 

Only  a  Longing  for  something  to  eat. 

Have  you  a  thought  in  your  downy  head  ? 

Can  you  say  to  yourself  so  much  as  "  I  "  ? 
Have  you  found  out  yet  that  you  are  yourself  ? 

Or  has  God,  what  you  will  be  by  and  by  ? 
9 


I3O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

It 's  only  a  little  that  we  can  guess, 

But  it 's  quite  as  much  as  we  care  to  know, 

The  rest  will  come  with  the  fleeting  years, 
Little  by  little,  —  and  better  so. 

Enough  for  the  day  is  the  good  thereof : 
The  speck  of  a  thing  that  is  lying  there, 

And  the  presence  that  fills  the  silent  house 
With  the  tender  hush  of  a  voiceless  prayer. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


SKETCH   OF  A  YOUNG   LADY    FIVE 
MONTHS   OLD. 

MY  pretty  budding,  breathing  flower, 
Methinks,  if  I  to-morrow 
Could  manage,  just  for  half  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalize  a  few 

Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 
With  newer  still  replaces. 

I  *d  paint,  my  child,  your  deep  blue  eyes, 

Their  quick  and  earnest  flashes  ; 
I  'd  paint  the  fringe  that  round  them  lies, 

The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes  ; 
I  'd  draw  with  most  fastidious  care 

One  eyebrow,  then  the  other, 
And  that  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, 

The  forehead  of  your  mother. 


A    YOUNG   LADY  FIVE  MONTHS  OLD.     131 

I  'd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 

Where  health  in  sunshine  dances ; 
And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 

A  thousand  voiceless  fancies ; 
And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long,  — 

The  neck  more  smooth  and  snowy 
Than  ever  yet  in  school-boy's  song 

Had  Caroline  or  Chloe. 

Not  less  on  those  twin  rounded  arms 

My  new-found  skill  would  linger, 
Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 

Of  every  tiny  finger ; 
Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one, 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  though  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  they  'd  jump  forever. 

But  then  your  odd  endearing  ways  — 

What  study  e'er  could  catch  them  ? 
Your  aimless  gestures,  endless  plays  — 

What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them? 
Your  lively  leap  of  merriment, 

Your  murmur  of  petition, 
Your  serious  silence  of  content, 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed, 
For  Art's  most  fine  creations !  — 

Grow  on,  sweet  baby ;  we  will  need, 
To  note  your  transformations, 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

No  picture  of  your  form  or  face, 
Your  waking  or  your  sleeping, 

But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 
And  trust  to  Memory's  keeping. 

Hereafter,  when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty, 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  fears, 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty, 
May  those  who  watch  our  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties, 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint, 

As  now  we  deem  her  beauties. 

WINTHROP  MACKWORTH  PRAEEI 


BABY'S    SKIES. 

WOULD  you  know  the  baby's  skies  ? 
Baby's  skies  are  mother's  eyes. 
Mother's  eyes  and  smile  together 
Make  the  baby's  pleasant  weather. 

Mother,  keep  your  eyes  from  tears, 
Keep  your  heart  from  foolish  fears, 
Keep  your  lips  from  dull  complaining, 
Lest  the  baby  think  't  is  raining. 

MARY  C.  BARTLETT. 


IN  AN  UNKNOWN  TONGUE.  133 


MOTHER. 

UPON  her  snowy  couch  she  drooping  lies, 
A  languor  on  her  limbs  that  seems  a  grace, 
A  sacred  pallor  on  her  lily  face, 
A  blessed  light  reflected  in  her  eyes,  — 
She  knows  who  drew  her  strength,  and  would  not  rise; 
Forgetting,  she  rests  a  little  space, 
Sees  her  warm  life-blood  mantle  in  his  face, 
And  strains  her  ear  to  catch  his  waiting  cries. 
O  wondrous  mother-love  !  how  strange  and  deep, 
With  what  vibrating  thrill  of  tenderness ; 

To  give  the  glow,  and  lie  a  pallid  flower, 
To  give  the  light,  and  smile,  and  wait  to  weep ! 
Sweet  is  thine  infant's  warm  unconsciousness, 
But  sweeter  thy  mysterious,  sacred  power ! 

ELAINE  GOODALE. 


IN  AN   UNKNOWN   TONGUE. 

I  KNOW  full  well  what  saith  Saint  Paul,- 
For  unknown  tongues  he  did  not  care ; 
It  was  as  much  as  he  could  do 
To  speak  them  good  and  fair. 

Give  him  the  known  and  understood ; 

Five  words  of  this  he  counted  more 
Than  thousands  ten  of  all  the  rest 

That  men  could  babble  o'er. 


134  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

But  then  he  did  n't,  as  he  might, 
Like  Peter,  take  a  wife  about, 

To  tend  his  thorn,  and  soothe  his  heart, 
With  combat  wearied  out. 


And  so  he  had  no  tiny  Paul, 

No  nonsense-prating,  wee  Pauline, 

To  make  him  half  forget  the  strife 
His  Jew  and  Greek  between. 

I  cannot  glory,  as  could  he, 
In  perils  both  by  sea  and  land ; 

Of  visions  I  have  had  a  few,  — 
Some  hard  to  understand. 

But  I  can  glory  in  a  Boy, 
As  dear  as  ever  poet  sung ; 

And  all  his  speech,  from  morn  till  eve, 
Is  in  an  unknown  tongue. 


Strange,  bubbling,  rippling,  gurgling  sounds 

His  pouting  lips  still  overflow ; 
But  what  the  meaning  of  them  is, 

The  wisest  do  not  know. 

Friends  have  I,  learned  in  the  Greek, 
In  Latin,  Hebrew,  Spanish,  Dutch, 

In  French  and  German ;  and  a  few 
Of  Sanscrit  know  —  not  much. 


A  RHYME  OF  ONE.  13$ 

They  come  and  hear  the  baby's  speech, 

As  blithe  as  any  song  of  bird ; 
They  wonder  much,  but  go  away, 

Nor  understand  a  word. 

It  minds  me  now  of  mountain  rills, 

And  now  of  zigzag  droning  bees, 
And  now  of  sounds  the  summer  makes 

Among  the  leafy  trees. 

And  yet,  if  I  should  say  the  truth, 
Five  words  of  his  to  me  are  more 

Than  of  the  words  I  understand 
Five  hundred  times  a  score. 

For  whatsoever  they  may  mean 

To  him  or  to  my  learned  friends, 
One  meaning,  of  all  meanings  best, 

He  still  to  me  commends,  — 

That  life  is  sweet  for  him  and  me, 
Though  half  its  meaning  be  not  guessed; 

That  God  is  good,  and  I  a  child 
Upon  his  loving  breast. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


A  RHYME   OF   ONE. 

YOU  sleep  upon  your  mother's  breast, 
Your  race  begun, 

A  welcome,  long  a  wish'd-for  Guest^ 
Whose  age  is  One. 


136  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

A  Baby-Boy,  you  wonder  why 

You  cannot  run ; 
You  try  to  talk  —  how  hard  you  try ! 

You  're  only  One. 

Ere  long  you  won't  be  such  a  dunce ; 

You  '11  eat  your  bun, 
And  fly  your  kite,  like  folk  who  once 

Were  only  One. 

You  '11  rhyme  and  woo,  and  fight  and  joke, 

Perhaps  you  '11  pun  ! 
Such  feats  are  never  done  by  folk 

Before  they  're  One. 

Some  day,  too,  you  may  have  your  joy, 

And  envy  none ; 
Yes,  you  yourself  may  own  a  Boy 

Who  is  n't  One. 


He  '11  dance  and  laugh  and  crow ;  he  '11  do 

As  you  have  done 
(You  crown  a  happy  home,  though  you 

Are  only  One). 

But  when  he  's  grown  shall  you  be  here 

To  share  his  fun, 
And  talk  of  times  when  he  (the  Dear !) 

Was  hardly  One  ? 


LOVE    WINS. 
From  painting  by  Jean  Aubert. 


THE  PLAYMATE  HOURS. 


Dear  Child,  't  is  your  poor  lot  to  be 

My  little  Son ; 
I  'm  glad,  though  I  am  old,  you  see,  — 

While  you  are  One. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 

BABY. 

DIMPLED  and  flushed  and  dewy  pink  he  lies, 
Crumpled  and  tossed  and  lapt  in  snowy  bands ; 
Aimlessly  reaching  with  his  tiny  hands, 
Lifting  in  wondering  gaze  his  great  blue  eyes. 
Sweet  pouting  lips,  parted  by  breathing  sighs  ; 
Soft  cheeks,  warm  tinted  as  from  tropic  lands; 
Framed  with  brown  hair  in  shining  silken  strands,  — 
All  fair,  all  pure,  a  sunbeam  from  the  skies ! 
O  perfect  innocence  !     O  soul  enshrined 
In  blissful  ignorance  of  good  or  ill, 

By  never  gale  of  idle  passion  crossed  1 
Although  thou  art  no  alien  from  thy  kind, 
Though  pain  and  death  may  take  thee  captive,  still 
Through  sin,  at  least,  thine  Eden  is  not  lost. 
ELAINE  GOODALE. 


THE   PLAYMATE  HOURS. 

DAWN  lingers  silent  in  the  shade  of  night, 
Till  on  the  gloaming  Baby's  laughter  rings. 
Then  smiling  Day  awakes,  and  open  flings 
Her  golden  doors,  to  speed  the  shining  flight 


138  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Of  restless  hours,  gay  children  of  the  light. 

Each  eager  playfellow  to  Baby  brings 

Some  separate  gift,  —  a  flitting  bird  that  sings 
With  her  ;  a  waving  branch  of  berries  bright ; 
A  heap  of  rustling  leaves ;  each  trifle  cheers 

This  joyous  little  life  but  just  begun. 
No  weary  hour  to  her  brings  sighs  or  tears  ; 

And  when  the  shadows  warn  the  loitering  sun, 
With  blossoms  in  her  hands,  untouched  by  fears, 

She  softly  falls  asleep,  and  day  is  done. 

MRS.  T.  W.  HIGGINSON. 


CRADLE  SONG. 

THE  winds  are  whispering  over  the  sea, 
And  the  waves  are  listening  smilingly,  - 
They  are  telling  tales  of  the  shining  sky, 
And  the  dusky  lands  they  travel  by. 

They  are  telling  tales  they  have  often  told,  — 

Of  faces  new  and  feelings  old, 

Of  hope  and  fear,  of  love  and  hate, 

Of  birth  and  death  and  human  fate, 

Of  homes  of  joy  and  hearts  of  pain, 
Of  storm  and  strife,  and  peace  again, 
Of  age  and  youth,  of  man  and  maid, 
And  of  baby  mine,  in  the  cradle  laid. 


SOME  TIME.  139 

And  the  sun  laughs  down  in  his  own  kind  way, 
For  the  heart  of  the  sun  is  as  young  as  they ; 
And  the  sea  looks  up  as  a  loved  one  should,  — 
They  are  old ;  they  know  it  is  good,  all  good. 

You  may  feel  the  waves  as  the  cradle  swings, 
And  the  air  is  stirred  with  the  wind's  soft  wings, 
And  mother  has  heard  from  the  sky  and  sea 
That  they  send  "  sweet  sleep  and  dreams  "  to  thee. 

Then  hush !  my  baby,  gently  rest 

In  the  night's  wide  arms,  on  the  earth's  broad  breast, 

The  sky  above,  beneath  the  sea, 

And  a  greater  than  all  to  shelter  thee. 

MERLE  ST.  CROIX  WRIGHT. 


SOME   TIME. 

LAST  night,  my  darling,  as  you  slept, 
I  thought  I  heard  you  sigh, 
And  to  your  little  crib  I  crept, 

And  watched  a  space  thereby ; 
And  then  I  stooped  and  kissed  your  brow, 

For  oh  !  I  love  you  so  — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 
But  some  time  you  shall  know ! 

Some  time  when,  in  a  darkened  place 

Where  others  come  to  weep, 
Your  eyes  shall  look  upon  a  face 

Calm  in  eternal  sleep. 


I4O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  voiceless  lips,  the  wrinkled  brow, 

The  patient  smile  shall  show  — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  may  know ! 

Look  backward,  then,  into  the  years, 

And  see  me  here  to-night,  — 
See,  O  my  darling !  how  my  tears 

Are  falling  as  I  write, 
And  feel  once  more  upon  your  brow 

The  kiss  of  long  ago  — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 

EUGENE  FIELR 


WHERE  BABY  JOY  COMES   FROM. 

AS  I  sat  by  my  study  table, 
With  my  sermon  strewing  the  floor, 
My  little  sixteen-month  darling 

Came  full-sail  through  the  study  door. 
He  first  bore  away  to  the  window, 

Then  veered  to  the  bright  hearthstone ; 
But  soon  in  the  furthest  corner 
Cast  anchor  all  alone. 

First  he  rattled  the  quills  in  my  pen-box, 
And  then  with  the  carpet  he  played ; 

Then  he  washed  his  hands  in  the  sunshine, 
And  caught  at  the  shadows  they  made. 


FROM  "  THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER."     141 

One  thing  was  as  good  as  another, 

For  each  gave  a  new  surprise : 
And  the  light  of  his  childish  gladness 

Kept  shining  on  out  of  his  eyes. 

As  I  wondered  where  all  the  joy  came  from, 

This  thought  fell  from  heaven  on  me, 
That  when  God  and  a  babe  are  together, 

A  little  fountain  of  glee 
Must  needs  bubble  up  in  the  child's  heart, 

Because  those  waters  are  given, 
And  ever  renewed  by  the  joy  tides 

Of  the  great  cheerful  Heart  in  heaven. 

I  had  quite  forgotten  my  sermon, 

And  my  baby  upon  the  floor 
Was  tearing  the  papers  to  pieces 

That  were  strewed  from  window  to  door ; 
But  I  knew  that  the  thought  he  gave  me 

Was  more  than  his  hands  could  destroy,  — 
For  the  love  of  the  Father  in  heaven 

Had  come  to  me  through  my  boy. 

SAMUEL  R.  CALTHROP. 


FROM  "THE  MILLER'S   DAUGHTER." 

LOOK  through  mine  eyes  with  thine.    True  wife, 
Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine  ; 
My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 
Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine'l 


142  OUT  O*  THE  HEART. 

Untouched  with  any  shade  of  years, 
May  those  kind  eyes  forever  dwell! 

They  have  not  shed  a  many  tears, 

Dear  eyes,  since  first  I  knew  them  well. 

Yet  tears  they  shed:  they  had  their  part 

Of  sorrow ;  for  when  time  was  ripe, 
The  still  affection  of  the  heart 

Became  an  outward  breathing  type, 
That  into  stillness  passed  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before ; 
Although  the  loss  that  brought  us  pain, 

That  loss  but  made  us  love  the  more, 

With  further  lockings  on.     The  kiss, 

The  woven  arms,  seem  but  to  be 
Weak  symbols  of  the  settled  bliss, 

The  comfort,  I  have  found  in  thee  : 
But  that  God  bless  thee,  dear  —  who  wrought 

Two  spirits  to  one  equal  mind  — 
With  blessings  beyond  hope  or  thought, 

With  blessings  which  no  words  can  find. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


ALL  MOTHER. 

IF  I  had  an  eagle's  wings, 
How  grand  to  sail  the  sky ! 
But  I  should  drop  to  the  earth 

If  I  heard  my  baby  cry. 
My  baby  —  my  darling, 
The  wings  may  go,  for  me. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR.  143 

If  I  were  a  splendid  queen, 

With  a  crown  to  keep  in  place, 
Would  it  do  for  a  little  wet  mouth 

To  rub  all  over  my  face  ? 
My  baby  —  my  darling, 

The  crown  may  go,  for  me. 

ELIZA  SPROAT  TURNER. 


A  GRACE   FOR  A   CHILD. 

HERE,  a  little  child,  I  stand, 
Heaving  up  my  either  hand ; 
Cold  as  paddocks  though  they  be, 
Here  I  lift  them  up  to  Thee, 
For  a  benison  to  fall 
On  our  meat,  and  on  us  all.    Amen. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 


THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR. 

T)  ETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
-LJ     When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations, 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 


144  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice,  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence : 
Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 

They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 
To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 


THE   TOYS.  145 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round -tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever, 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


THE  TOYS. 

MY  little  son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 
And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet,  grown-up  wise, 
Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobeyed, 
I  struck  him,  and  dismissed 
With  hard  words  and  unkissed,  — 
His  mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 
Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 
I  visited  his  bed ; 
But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 
With  darkened  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 
From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 
And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own ; 
For  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 
He  had  put  within  his  reach, 
A  box  of  counters,  and  a  red-veined  stone, 
A  piece  of  glass,  abraded  by  the  beach, 
10 


146  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 
A  bottle  with  blue-bells, 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with  care- 
ful art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  prayed 
To  God,  I  wept  and  said  : 
Ah  !  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly,  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 
Thou  'It  leave  thy  wrath  and  say : 
"  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness." 

COVENTRY  PATMORE. 


MORNING-GLORY. 

WONDROUS  interlacement ! 
Holding  fast  to  threads  by  green  and 

silky  rings, 

With  the  dawn  it  spreads  its  white  and  purple  wings  ; 
Generous  in  its  bloom,  and  sheltering  while  it  clings, 
Sturdy  morning-glory. 

Creeping  through  the  casement, 
Slanting  to  the  floor  in  dusty,  shining  beams, 
Dancing  on  the  door  in  quick,  fantastic  gleams, 


A  MOTHER'S  PICTURE.  147 

Comes  the   new  day's  light,  and  pours  in  tideless 

streams, 
Golden  morning-glory. 

In  the  lowly  basement, 

Rocking  in  the  sun,  the  baby's  cradle  stands ; 
Now  the  little  one  thrusts  out  his  rosy  hands  ; 
Soon  his  eyes  will  open ;  then  in  all  the  lands 

No  such  morning-glory. 

H.  H.  JACKSON. 


A  MOTHER'S   PICTURE. 

SHE  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes  ! 
Once  when  the  glorifying  moon  revealed 
Her  who  at  evening  by  our  pillow  kneeled,  — 
Soft-voiced  and  golden-haired,  from  holy  skies 
Flown  to  her  loves  on  wings  of  Paradise,  — 
We  looked  to  see  the  pinions  half-concealed. 
The  Tuscan  vines  and  olives  will  not  yield 
Her  back  to  me  who  loved  her  in  this  wise, 

And  since  have  little  known  her,  but  have  grown 
To  see  another  mother  tenderly 

Watch  over  sleeping  children  of  my  own. 

Perhaps  the  years  have  changed  her,  yet  alone 
This  picture  lingers ;  still  she  seems  to  me 
The  fair  young  angel  of  my  infancy. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


148  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


THE   HAPPY   CHILD. 

TOYS  and  treats  and  pleasures  pass 
Like  a  shadow  in  a  glass, 
Like  the  smoke  that  mounts  on  high, 
Like  a  noonday's  butterfly. 

Quick  they  come  and  quick  they  end, 
Like  the  money  that  I  spend ; 
Some  to-day,  to-morrow  more, 
Short,  like  those  that  went  before. 

Mother,  fold  me  to  your  knees  ! 
How  much  should  I  care  for  these 
Little  joys  that  come  and  go 
If  you  did  not  love  me  so  ? 

Father,  now  my  prayer  is  said, 
Lay  your  hand  upon  my  head  ! 
Pleasures  pass  from  day  to  day, 
But  I  know  that  love  will  stay. 

While  I  sleep  it  will  be  near ; 
I  shall  wake  and  find  it  here  ; 
I  shall  feel  it  in  the  air, 
When  I  say  my  morning  prayer. 

And  when  things  are  sad  or  wrong, 
Then  I  know  that  love  is  strong ; 
When  I  ache  or  when  I  weep, 
Then  I  know  that  love  is  deep. 


BABY  MINE.  149 

Love  is  old  and  love  is  new, 
You  love  me  and  I  love  you ; 
And  the  Lord  who  made  it  thus, 
Did  it  in  His  love  for  us. 

WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RAND. 


BABY  MINE. 

BABY  mine,  with  the  grave,  grave  face, 
Where  did  you  get  that  royal  calm, 
Too  staid  for  joy,  too  still  for  grace  ? 

I  bend  as  I  kiss  your  pink,  soft  palm ; 
Are  you  the  first  of  a  nobler  race, 
Baby  mine  ? 

You  come  from  the  region  of  long  ago, 

And  gazing  awhile  where  the  seraphs  dwell 

Has  given  your  face  a  glory  and  glow,  — 
Of  that  brighter  land  have  you  aught  to  tell  ? 

I  seem  to  have  known  it  —  I  more  would  know, 
Baby  mine. 

Your  calm  blue  eyes  have  a  far-off  reach : 

Look  at  me  now  with  those  wondrous  eyes. 
Why  are  we  doom'd  to  the  gift  of  speech 

While  you  are  silent  and  sweet  and  wise  ? 
You  have  much  to  learn  —  you  have  more  to  teach, 
Baby  mine. 

FREDERICK  LOCKER. 


150  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


COMPENSATION. 

I  AM  not  a  prosperous  man ; 
The  ships  I  send  to  sea 
Are  apt  to  meet  some  strange  defeat 

Ere  they  come  back  to  me. 
And  her  eyes  are  dulled  with  care, 

And  the  castle  that  serves  our  prime 
Is  a  poor  affair  to  those  in  the  air 
We  built  in  our  courting  time. 

This  morning,  waking  slow 

To  a  sense  of  the  coming  day, 
Of  the  life  too  mean,  and  the  might  have  been, 

My  coward  heart  gave  way. 
My  heart,  appalled,  sank  down, 

But  rose  again  with  a  leap 
At  our  delight  when  at  dead  of  night 

Our  babe  laughed  out  in  his  sleep. 

ELIZA  SPROAT  TURNER. 


LIKE  A  LITTLE  CHILD. 

MY  child  is  lying  on  my  knee, 
The  signs  of  heaven  she  reads ; 
My  face  is  all  the  heaven  she  sees, 
Is  all  the  heaven  she  needs. 


LIKE  A  LITTLE   CHILD. 

And  she  is  well,  yea,  bathed  in  bliss, 

If  heaven  is  in  my  face ; 
Behind  it  all  is  tenderness 

And  truthfulness  and  grace. 

I  mean  her  well  so  earnestly, 
Unchanged  in  changing  mood ; 

My  life  would  go,  without  a  sigh, 
To  bring  her  something  good. 

I  also  am  a  child,  and  I 

Am  ignorant  and  weak ; 
I  gaze  upon  the  starry  sky, 

And  then  I  must  not  speak, 

For  all  behind  the  starry  sky, 
Behind  the  world  so  broad, 

Behind  men's  hearts  and  souls  doth  lie 
The  Infinite  of  God. 

Ay,  true  to  her,  though  troubled  sore, 

I  cannot  choose  but  be ; 
Thou  who  art  peace  forevermore 

Art  very  true  to  me. 

If  I  am  low  and  sinful,  bring 
More  love  where  need  is  rife ; 

Thou  knowest  what  an  awful  thing 
It  is  to  be  a  life. 


152  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Lo  !  Lord,  I  sit  in  thy  wide  space, 

My  child  upon  my  knee ; 
She  looketh  up  into  my  face, 

And  I  look  up  to  Thee. 

GEORGE  MACDONALIX 


TO   A  CHILD. 

IF  by  any  device  or  knowledge 
The  rosebud  its  beauty  could  know, 
It  would  stay  a  rosebud  forever, 
Nor  into  its  fulness  grow. 

And  if  thou  could'st  know  thy  own  sweetness, 
O  little  one,  perfect  and  sweet ! 
Thou  would'st  be  a  child  forever, 
Completer  whilst  incomplete. 

FRANCIS  TURNER  PALGRAVE. 


THE  GOLDEN  MILE-STONE. 

EACH  man's  chimney  is  his  golden  mile-stone, 
Is  the  central  point  from  which  he  measures 

Every  distance, 
Through  the  gateways  of  the  world  around  him. 

In  his  farthest  wanderings  still  he  sees  it ; 

Hears  the  talking  flame,  the  answering  night-wind, 

As  he  heard  them 
When  he  sat  with  those  who  were,  but  are  not. 


WHICH?  153 

Happy  he  whom  neither  wealth  nor  fashion, 
Nor  the  march  of  the  encroaching  city, 

Drives  an  exile 
From  the  hearth  of  his  ancestral  homestead. 

We  may  build  more  splendid  habitations, 

Fill  our  rooms  with  paintings  and  with  sculptures, 

But  we  cannot 
Buy  with  gold  the  old  associations  ! 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


HOME    COMFORT. 

AND  at  night  the  Septette  of  Beethoven, 
And  grandmother  by  in  her  chair, 
And  the  foot  of  all  feet  on  the  sofa 
Beating  delicate  time  to  the  air. 

CHARLES  KINGSLEY. 

WHICH? 

"  WHICH  sha11  !t  be  ?  which  sha11  u  be  ? " 

V  V       I  looked  at  John  —  John  looked  at  me : 
Dear,  patient  John,  who  loves  me  yet 
As  well  as  though  my  locks  were  jet. 
And  when  I  found  that  I  must  speak, 
My  voice  seemed  strangely  low  and  weak : 
"  Tell  me  again  what  Robert  said !  " 
And  then  I,  listening,  bent  my  head. 
"  This  is  his  letter : 


154  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

"  •  I  will  give 

A  house  and  land  while  you  shall  live 
If,  in  return,  from  out  your  seven 
One  child  to  me  for  aye  is  given.' " 
I  looked  at  John's  old  garments  worn, 
I  thought  of  all  that  John  had  borne 
Of  poverty  and  work  and  care, 
Which  I,  though  willing,  could  not  share; 
I  thought  of  seven  mouths  to  feed, 
Of  seven  little  children's  need, 
And  then  of  this. 

"  Come,  John,"  said  I, 
"  We  '11  choose  among  them  as  they  lie 
Asleep."    So,  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Dear  John  and  I  surveyed  our  band. 
First  to  the  cradle  light  we  stepped, 
Where  Lilian  the  baby  slept, 
A  glory  'gainst  the  pillow  white. 
Softly  the  father  stooped  to  lay 
His  rough  hand  down  in  loving  way, 
When  dream  or  whisper  made  her  stir, 
And  huskily  he  said  :  "  Not  her !  " 

We  stooped  beside  the  trundle-bed, 
And  one  long  ray  of  lamplight  shed 
Athwart  the  boyish  faces  there 
In  sleep  so  pitiful  and  fair. 

I  saw  on  Jamie's  rough  red  cheek 
A  tear  undried.    Ere  John  could  speak, 


WHICH!  155 

«  He 's  but  a  baby  too,"  said  I, 
And  kissed  him  as  we  hurried  by. 

Pale,  patient  Robbie's  angel  face 
Still  in  his  sleep  bore  suffering's  trace  : 
"  No,  for  a  thousand  crowns,  not  him," 
He  whispered  while  our  eyes  were  dim. 

Poor  bad  Dick !  our  wayward  son, 
Turbulent,  reckless,  idle  one  — - 
Could  he  be  spared?     Nay,  He  who  gave 
Bade  us  befriend  him  to  the  grave ; 
Only  a  mother's  heart  can  be 
Patient  enough  for  such  as  he  ; 
"  And  so,"  said  John,  "  I  would  not  dare 
To  send  him  from  her  bedside  prayer." 

Then  stole  we  softly  up  above, 
And  knelt  by  Mary,  child  of  love. 

"  Perhaps  for  her  't  would  better  be," 
I  said  to  John.     Quite  silently 
He  lifted  up  a  curl  that  lay 
Across  her  cheek  in  wilful  way, 
And  shook  his  head,  "  Nay,  love,  not  thee," 
The  while  my  heart  beat  audibly. 

Only  one  more,  our  eldest  lad, 
Trusty  and  truthful,  good  and  glad  — 
So  like  his  father.    "  No,  John,  no  — 
I  cannot,  will  not  let  him  go." 


156  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

And  so  we  wrote,  in  courteous  way, 
We  could  not  give  one  child  away. 
And  afterward  toil  lighter  seemed, 
Thinking  of  that  of  which  we  dreamed, 
Happy  in  truth  that  not  one  face 
We  missed  from  its  accustomed  place ; 
Thankful  to  work  for  all  the  seven, 
Trusting  the  rest  to  One  in  heaven. 

ANON. 


LAURA,  MY  DARLING. 

LAURA,  my  darling,  the  roses  have  blushed 
At  the  kiss  of  the  dew,  and  our  chamber  is 

hushed ; 

Our  murmuring  babe  to  your  bosom  has  clung, 
And  hears  in  his  slumber  the  song  that  you  sung ; 
I  watch  you  asleep  with  your  arms  round  him  thrown, 
Your  links  of  dark  tresses  wound  in  with  his  own. 
And  the  wife  is  as  dear  as  the  gentle  young  bride 
Of  the  hour  when  you  first,  darling,  came  to  my  side. 

Laura,  my  darling,  our  sail  down  the  stream 

Of  Youth's  summers  and  winters  has  been  like  a  dream ; 

Years  have  but  rounded  your  womanly  grace, 

And  added  their  spell  to  the  light  of  your  face ; 

Your  soul  is  the  same  as  though  part  were  not  given 

To  the  two,  like  yourself,  sent  to  bless  me  from 

heaven, — 

Dear  lives,  springing  forth  from  the  life  of  my  life, 
To  make  you  more  near,  darling,  mother  and  wife  J 


LAURA,  MY  DARLING.  1 57 

Laura,  my  darling,  there 's  hazel-eyed  Fred, 

Asleep  in  his  own  tiny  cot  by  the  bed, 

And  little  King  Arthur,  whose  curls  have  the  art 

Of  winding  their  tendrils  so  close  round  my  heart ; 

Yet  fairer  than  either  and  dearer  than  both, 

Is  the  true  one  who  gave  me  in  girlhood  her  troth. 

For  we,  when  we  mated  for  evil  and  good,  — 

What  were  we,  darling,  but  babes  in  the  wood  ? 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  years  which  have  flown 
Brought  few  of  the  prizes  I  pledged  to  my  own. 
I  said  that  no  sorrow  should  roughen  her  way,  — 
Her  life  should  be  cloudless,  a  long  summer's  day. 
Shadow  and  sunshine,  thistles  and  flowers, 
Which  of  the  two,  darling,  most  have  been  ours  ? 
Yet  to-night,  by  the  smile  on  your  lips,  I  can  see 
You  are  dreaming  of  me,  darling,  dreaming  of  me. 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  stars  that  we  knew 

In  our  youth  are  still  shining  as  tender  and  true; 

The  midnight  is  sounding  its  slumberous  bell, 

And  I  come  to  the  one  who  has  loved  me  so  well. 

Wake,  darling,  wake,  for  my  vigil  is  done  : 

Who  shall  dissever  our  lives  which  are  one  ? 

Say,  while  the  rose  listens  under  her  breath, 

"  Naught  until  death,  darling,  naught  until  death  ! " 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


158  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

THE   OLD   LOVE   SONG. 
JUNE  28,  1890. 

PLAY  it  slowly,  sing  it  lowly, 
Old  familiar  tune ! 
Once  it  ran  in  dance  and  dimple, 

Like  a  brook  in  June ; 
Now  it  sobs  along  the  measures 

With  a  sound  of  tears ; 
Dear  old  voices  echo  through  it, 
Vanished  with  the  years. 

Play  it  slowly,  —  it  is  holy 

As  an  evening  hymn ; 
Morning  gladness  hushed  to  sadness 

Fills  it  to  the  brim. 
Memories  home  within  the  music, 

Stealing  through  the  bars, 
Thoughts  within  its  quiet  spaces 

Rise  and  set  like  stars. 

Ripple,  ripple,  goes  the  love-song 

Till,  in  slowing  time, 
Early  sweetness  grown  completeness 

Floods  its  every  rhyme : 
Who  together  learn  the  music 

Life  and  death  unfold, 
Know  that  love  is  but  beginning 

Until  love  is  old. 


HOLIDAYS.  159 

Singing,  singing  through  the  roses 

Went  our  lovers  twain,  — 
Was  there  ever  such  a  rose  time, 

Could  there  be  again  ? 
Now  they  tell  us  "  Five-and-twenty 

Junes  we  Ve  seen  them  blow ; 
Every  June  's  completer,  sweeter,  — 

Well  we  lovers  know ! " 

WILLIAM  C.  GANNETT. 


HOLIDAYS. 

THE  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those 
Kept  by  ourselves  in  silence  and  apart ; 
The  secret  anniversaries  of  the  heart, 
When  the  full  river  of  feeling  overflows ;  — 

The  happy  days  unclouded  to  their  close; 
The  sudden  joys  that  out  of  darkness  start 
As  flames  from  ashes  ;  swift  desires  that  dart 
Like  swallows  singing  down  each  wind  that  blows ! 

White  as  the  gleam  of  a  receding  sail, 

White  as  a  cloud  that  floats  and  fades  in  air, 
White  as  the  whitest  lily  on  a  stream, 

These  tender  memories  are ;  —  a  Fairy  Tale 
Of  some  enchanted  land  we  know  not  where, 
But  lovely  as  a  landscape  in  a  dream. 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 


160  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


BETROTHED   ANEW. 

THE  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air, 
And  balmy  days  their  guerdons  bring ; 
The  Earth  again  is  young  and  fair, 
And  amorous  with  musky  Spring. 

The  golden  nurslings  of  the  May 

In  splendor  strew  the  spangled  green, 

And  hours  of  tender  beauty  play, 
Entangled  where  the  willows  lean. 

Mark  how  the  rippled  currents  flow ; 

What  lustres  on  the  meadows  lie ! 
And  hark,  the  songsters  come  and  go, 

And  trill  between  the  earth  and  sky. 

Who  told  us  that  the  years  had  fled, 
Or  borne  afar  our  blissful  youth  ? 

Such  joys  are  all  about  us  spread, 
We  know  the  whisper  was  not  truth. 

The  birds,  that  break  from  grass  and  grove, 
Sing  every  carol  that  they  sung 

When  first  our  veins  were  rich  with  love, 
And  May  her  mantle  round  us  flung. 

O  fresh-lit  dawn  !  immortal  life  ! 

O  Earth's  betrothal,  sweet  and  true, 
With  whose  delights  our  souls  are  rife, 

And  aye  their  vernal  vows  renew  ! 


THE  GOOD  SISTER.  l6l 

Then,  darling,  walk  with  me  this  morn, 
Let  your  brown  tresses  drink  its  sheen ; 

These  violets,  within  them  worn, 
Of  floral  fays  shall  make  you  queen. 

What  though  there  comes  a  time  of  pain 
When  autumn  winds  forebode  decay ; 

The  days  of  love  are  born  again, 
That  fabled  time  is  far  away ! 

And  never  seemed  the  land  so  fair 
As  now,  nor  birds  such  notes  to  sing, 

Since  first  within  your  shining  hair 
I  wove  the  blossoms  of  the  Spring. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 


THE  GOOD   SISTER. 

THERE  is  no  friend  like  a  sister, 
In  calm  or  stormy  weather, 
To  cheer  one  on  the  tedious  way, 
To  fetch  one  if  one  goes  astray, 
To  lift  one  if  one  totters  down, 
To  strengthen  whilst  one  stands. 

CHRISTINA  G.  ROSSETTI. 


ii 


1 62  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


LOVE   AND   DEATH. 

WHEN  the  end  comes,  and  we  must  say  good-by 
And  I  am  going  to  the  quiet  land ; 

And  sitting  in  some  loved  place  hand  in  hand, 
For  the  last  time  together,  you  and  I, 
We  watch  the  winds  blow,  and  the  sunlight  lie 

Above  the  spaces  of  our  garden  home, 

Soft  by  the  washing  of  the  western  foam, 
Where  we  have  lived  and  loved  in  days  past  by,  — 
We  must  not  weep,  my  darling,  or  upbraid 

The  quiet  death  who  comes  to  part  us  twain ; 

But  know  that  parting  would  not  be  such  pain 
Had  not  our  love  a  perfect  flower  been  made. 
And  we  shall  find  it  in  God's  garden  laid 

On  that  sweet  day  wherein  we  meet  again. 

ANON. 


BROTHER  AND    SISTER. 

I  CAN  NOT  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 
When  our  two  lives  grew  like  two  buds  that  kiss 
At  lightest  thrill  from  the  bee's  swinging  chime, 
Because  the  one  so  near  the  other  is. 

He  was  the  elder  and  a  little  man 
Of  forty  inches,  bound  to  show  no  dread, 
And  I  the  girl  that,  puppy-like,  now  ran, 
Now  lagged  behind  my  brother's  larger  tread. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  1 63 

I  held  him  wise,  and  when  he  talked  to  me 
Of  snakes  and  birds,  and  which  God  loved  the  best, 
I  thought  his  knowledge  marked  the  boundary 
Where  men  grew  blind,  though  angels  knew  the  rest. 

Long  years  have  left  their  writing  on  my  brow, 
But  yet  the  freshness  and  the  dew-fed  beam 
Of  those  young  mornings  are  about  me  now, 
When  we  two  wandered  toward  the  far-off  stream 

With  rod  and  line.     Our  basket  held  a  store 
Baked  for  us  only,  and  I  thought  with  joy 
That  I  should  have  my  share,  though  he  had  more, 
Because  he  was  the  elder  and  a  boy. 

The  firmaments  of  daisies  since  to  me 
Have  had  those  mornings  in  their  opening  eyes, 
The  bunched  cowslip's  pale  transparency 
Carries  that  sunshine  of  sweet  memories. 


Those  hours  were  seed  to  all  my  after  good ; 
My  infant  gladness,  through  eye,  ear,  and  touch, 
Took  easily  as  warmth  a  various  food 
To  nourish  the  sweet  skill  of  loving  much. 

Our  brown  canal  was  endless  to  my  thought; 
And  on  its  banks  I  sat  in  dreamy  peace, 
Unknowing  how  the  good  I  loved  was  wrought, 
Untroubled  by  the  fear  that  it  would  cease. 


164  OUT  OP  THE  HEART. 

Slowly  the  barges  floated  into  view, 
Rounding  a  grassy  hill  to  me  sublime 
With  some  Unknown  beyond  it,  whither  flew 
The  parting  cuckoo  toward  a  fresh  spring  time. 

His  sorrow  was  my  sorrow,  and  his  joy 
Sent  little  leaps  and  laughs  through  all  my  frame ; 
My  doll  seemed  lifeless,  and  no  girlish  toy 
Had  any  reason  when  my  brother  came. 

School  parted  us ;  we  never  found  again 
That  childish  world  where  our  two  spirits  mingled 
Like  scents  from  varying  roses  that  remain 
One  sweetness,  nor  can  evermore  be  singled. 

Yet  the  twin  habit  of  that  early  time 
Lingered  for  long  about  the  heart  and  tongue ; 
We  had  been  natives  of  one  happy  clime, 
And  its  dear  accent  to  our  utterance  clung 

Till  the  dire  years  whose  awful  name  is  Change 
Had  grasped  our  souls  still  yearning  in  divorce, 
And  pitiless  shaped  them  in  two  forms  that  range 
Two  elements  which  sever  their  life's  course. 

But  were  another  childhood-world  my  share, 
I  would  be  born  a  little  sister  there. 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 


EXCUSE.  165 


FRIENDSHIP. 

A  RUDDY  drop  of  manly  blood 
The  surging  sea  outweighs  ; 
The  world  uncertain  comes  and  goes, 
The  lover  rooted  stays. 
I  fancied  he  was  fled, 
And  after  many  a  year 
Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness, 
Like  daily  sunrise  there. 
My  careful  heart  was  free  again : 
O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 
Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 
Through  thee  the  rose  is  red  ; 
All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form, 
And  look  beyond  the  earth,  — 
The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 
A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 
Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 
To  master  my  despair ; 
The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 
Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON. 

EXCUSE. 

I  TOO  have  suffered.     Yet  I  know 
She  is  not  cold,  though  she  seems  so : 
She  is  not  cold,  she  is  not  light ; 
But  our  ignoble  souls  lack  might. 


166  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

She  smiles,  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 

Was  turned  upon  the  sons  of  men ; 

But  light  the  serious  visage  grew,  — 

She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored,  puny  passion  fits,  — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she ! 

Yet  O  that  Fate  would  let  her  see 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  we,  — 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love  I 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights, 
His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights ! 
In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 
The  magic  of  the  universe ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry,  Long,  long  I  Ve  looked  for  thee ! 


OUR   TWO  OPINIONS.  l6 

Ther  will  she  weep.     With  smiles  till  then 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men. 
Till  then  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  gay,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


OUR  TWO  OPINIONS. 

US  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out,  — 
Nigh  to  the  age  uv  my  youngest  now ; 
Don't  rec'lect  what 't  wuz  about, 

Some  small  deefF rence,  I  '11  allow. 
Lived  next  neighbors  twenty  years, 

A-hatin'  each  other,  me  'nd  Jim, — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 
'nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

Grew  up  together  'nd  would  n't  speak, 

Courted  sisters,  'nd  marr'd  'em  too ; 
'Tended  same  meetin'-house  oncet  a  week, 

A-hatin'  each  other  through  and  through ! 
But  when  Abe  Linkern  asked  the  West 

F'r  soldiers,  we  answered,  —  me  'nd  Jim,  — 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

But  down  in  Tennessee  one  night 
Ther  wuz  sound  uv  firm'  fur  away, 

'nd  the  sergeant  allowed  ther  'd  be  a  fight 
With  the  Johnnie  Rebs  some  time  nex'  day; 


168  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

\id  as  I  wuz  thinkin1  uv  Lizzie  'nd  home, 
Jim  stood  afore  me,  long  'nd  slim,  — 

He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 
'nd  /  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

Seemed  like  we  knew  there  wuz  goin'  to  be 

Serious  trouble  fr  me  'nd  him ; 
Us  two  shuck  hands,  did  Jim  'nd  me, 

But  never  a  word  from  me  or  Jim ! 
He  went  his  way  'nd  7  went  mine, 

'nd  into  the  battle's  roar  went  we,  — 
I  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  Jim, 

'nd  he  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me. 

Jim  never  come  back  from  the  war  again, 

But  I  haint  forgot  that  last,  last  night 
When,  waitin'  f 'r  orders,  us  two  men 

Made  up  'nd  shuck  hands,  afore  the  fight, 
'nd  after  all,  it 's  soothin'  to  know 

That  here  7  be  'nd  yonder 's  Jim, 
He  havin'  his  opinyin  uv  me, 

'nd  7  havin'  my  opinyin  uv  him. 

EUGENE  FIELD, 


NEW  HOUSE:  OLD   HOME. 

"\7OUR  house  is  built  on  holy  ground: 
JL      A  loving  home  was  here, 
Where  I  a  kindly  welcome  found 
For  many  a  goodly  year. 


NEW  HOUSE:    OLD  HOME.  169 

I  bless  the  old  with  grateful  heart, 

With  joy  I  hail  the  new, 
Whose  walls  the  builder's  patient  art 

Have  built  so  sound  and  true. 


With  happy  eyes  its  strength  I  see, 

And  all  its  beauty  own  : 
Each  part  complete  as  't  were  to  be 

Prized  for  itself  alone. 

New  House  —  Old  Home ;  O  happy  walls 

For  such  a  glory  meet !  — 
To  echo  little  children's  calls, 

And  hear  their  pattering  feet ; 

To  shield  them  in  their  gentle  sleep, 

Nor  frown  upon  their  play; 
The  treasure  of  their  life  to  keep 

From  every  harm  away. 

Here  love  that  seemed  complete  before 

Shall  yet  more  perfect  grow, 
As  every  happy  year  shall  more 

Of  inward  grace  bestow. 

New  House  !    But  still  old  books  shall  cheer, 

Old  music  sway  the  heart, 
And  flowers  that  have  been  always  dear 

Their  tender  grace  impart. 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Old  Home  !  for  o'er  the  threshold  strange 

Old  friends  shall  haste  to  prove 
How  little  changing  place  can  change 

The  hearts  of  those  who  love. 

Old  Home !  for  westering  age  shall  shed 

Its  blessing  on  the  scene, 
With  sacred  thoughts  that  daily  wed 

What  is  with  what  hath  been  ; 

Ay,  and  what  is  with  that  beyond 

Our  vision's  farthest  scope 
Which  makes  each  memory  sweet  and  fond 

A  promise  and  a  hope. 

New  House,  Old  Home  !  and  what  if  here 

An  emblem  true  should  be 
Of  things  which  shall  to  us  appear 

In  love's  eternity  ? 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


AT   FOUR-SCORE. 

THIS  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  full  four-score 
years  ago,  — 
And  here  she  is  living  still,  bowed  and  ailing,  but 

clinging 
Still  to  this  wonted  life,  —  like  an  ancient  and  blasted 

oak-tree 

Whose  dying  roots  yet  clasp  the  earth  with  an  iron 
hold. 


AT  FO UR-SCORE.  1 7 1 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  and  yonder  across 

the  bay 
Is  the  home  her  lover  built,  —for  her  and  for  him  and 

their  children ; 
Daily  she  watched  it  grow,  from  dawn  to  the  evening 

twilight, 
As  it  rose  on  the  orchard  hill,  'mid  the  spring-time 

showers  and  bloom. 


There  is  the  village  church,  its  steeple  over  the  trees 
Rises  and  shows  the  clock  she  has  watched  since  the 

day  it  was  started,  — 

*T  is  many  a  year  ago,  how  many  she  cannot  remember: 
Now  solemnly  over  the  water  rings  out  the  evening 

hour. 


And  there  in  that  very  church,  —  though,  alas,  how 

bedizened  and  changed ! 
They  Ve  painted  it  up,  she  says,  in  their  queer,  new, 

modern  fashion,  — 
There  on  a  morning  in  June  she  gave  her  hand  to  her 

husband ; 
Her  heart  it  was  his  (she  told  him)  long  years  and 

years  before. 

Now  here  she  sits  at  the  window,  gazing  out  on  steeple 

and  hill ; 
All  but  the  houses  have  gone,  —  the  church,  and  the 

trees,  and  the  houses  ;  — 


1/2  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

All,  all  have  gone  long  since,  parents  and  husband 
and  children ; 

And  herself,  —  she  thinks,  at  times,  she  too  has  van- 
ished and  gone. 

No,  it  cannot  be  she  who  stood  in  the  church  that 

morning  in  June, 
Nor  she  who  felt  at  her  breast  the  lips  of  a  child  in  the 

darkness : 
But  hark !  in  the  gathering  dusk  comes  a  low,  quick 

moan  of  anguish,  — 
Ah,  it  is  she  indeed  who  has  lived,  who  has  loved,  and 

lost. 

For  she  thinks  of  a  wintry  night  when  her  last  was 

taken  away,  — 
Forty  years  this  very  month,  —  the  last,  the  fairest, 

the  dearest ; 
All  gone,  —  ah,  yes,  it  is  she  who  has  loved,  who  has 

lost  and  suffered, 
She  and  none  other  it  is,  left  alone  in  her  sorrow  and 

pain. 

Still   with   its   sapless   roots,   that   stay  though    the 

branches  have  dropped, 
Have  withered  and  fallen  and  gone,  their  strength  and 

their  glory  forgotten ; 
Still  with  the  life  that  remains,  silent  and  faithful  and 

steadfast, 
Through  sunshine  and  bending  storm  clings  the  oak 

to  its  mother-earth. 

RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER. 


T&TE-A-TETE.  173 

TETE-A-T&TE. 
I. 

ABIT  of  ground,  a  smell  of  earth, 
A  pleasant  murmur  in  the  trees, 
The  chirp  of  birds,  an  insect's  hum, 
And,  kneeling  on  their  chubby  knees, 

Two  neighbors'  children  at  their  play ; 

Who  has  not  seen  a  hundred  such  ?  — 
A  head  of  gold,  a  head  of  brown, 

Bending  together  till  they  touch. 


II. 

A  country  schoolhouse  by  the  road, 
A  spicy  scent  of  woods  anear, 

And  all  the  air  with  summer  sounds 
Laden  for  who  may  care  to  hear. 

So  do  not  two,  a  boy  and  girl, 
Who  stay  when  all  the  rest  are  gone, 

Solving  a  problem  deeper  far 
Than  one  they  seem  intent  upon. 

Dear  hearts,  of  course  they  do  not  know 
How  near  their  heads  together  lean ; 

The  bee  that  wanders  through  the  room 
Has  hardly  space  to  go  between. 


1/4  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 


III. 

Now  darker  is  the  head  of  brown, 
The  head  of  gold  is  brighter  now, 

And  lines  of  deeper  thought  and  life 
Are  written  upon  either  brow. 

The  sense  that  thrilled  their  being  through 
With  nameless  longings  vast  and  dim, 

Has  found  a  voice,  has  found  a  name, 
And  where  he  goes  she  follows  him. 

Again  their  heads  are  bending  near, 
And  bending  down  in  silent  awe 

Above  a  morsel  pure  and  sweet, 
A  miracle  of  love  and  law. 

How  often  shall  their  heads  be  bowed 
With  joy  or  grief,  with  love  and  pride, 

As  waxeth  strong  that  feeble  life, 
Or  slowly  ebbs  its  falling  tide  1 

IV. 

A  seaward  hill  where  lie  the  dead 

In  dreamless  slumber  deep  and  calm ; 

Above  their  graves  the  roses  bloom, 
And  all  the  air  is  full  of  balm. 

They  do  not  smell  the  roses  sweet ; 

They  do  not  see  the  ships  that  go 
Along  the  far  horizon's  edge  ; 

They  do  not  feel  the  breezes  blow. 


TWO  LOVERS.  175 

Here  loving  hands  have  gently  laid 
The  neighbors'  children,  girl  and  boy, 

And  man  and  wife  ;  head  close  to  head 
They  sleep,  and  know  nor  pain  nor  joy. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


TWO   LOVERS. 

TWO  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring  : 
They  leaned  soft  cheeks  together  there, 
Mingled  the  dark  and  sunny  hair, 
And  heard  the  wooing  thrushes  sing. 

O  budding  time ! 
O  love's  blest  prime ! 

Two  wedded  from  the  portal  stept : 
The  bells  made  happy  carollings, 
The  air  was  soft  as  fanning  wings, 
White  petals  on  the  pathway  slept. 

O  pure-eyed  bride ! 
O  tender  pride ! 

Two  faces  o'er  a  cradle  bent : 
Two  hands  above  the  head  were  locked ; 
These  pressed  each  other  while  they  rocked, 
Those  watched  a  life  that  love  had  sent. 
O  solemn  hour ! 
O  hidden  power ! 


176  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Two  parents  by  the  evening  fire  : 
The  red  light  fell  about  their  knees 
On  heads  that  rose  by  slow  degrees 
Like  buds  upon  the  lily  spire. 

O  patient  life ! 
O  tender  strife ! 

The  two  still  sat  together  there, 
The  red  light  shone  about  their  knees; 
But  all  the  heads  by  slow  degrees 
Had  gone  and  left  that  lonely  pair. 

O  voyage  fast ! 
O  vanished  past ! 

The  red  light  shone  upon  the  floor 
And  made  the  space  between  them  wide  ; 
They  drew  their  chairs  up  side  by  side, 
Their  pale  cheeks  joined,  and  said,  "  Once  more ! " 
O  memories  ! 
O  past  that  is  ! 

GEORGE  ELIOT. 

IN   TWOS. 

QOMEWHERE  in  the  world  there  hide 
O     Garden-gates  that  no  one  sees 
Save  they  come  in  happy  twos,  — 
Not  in  ones,  nor  yet  in  threes. 

But  from  every  maiden's  door 
Leads  a  pathway  straight  and  true ; 
Maps  and  surveys  know  it  not ; 
He  who  finds,  finds  room  for  two! 


WOODLAND    VOWS. 

From  painting  by  Robert  Beyschlag. 


IN  TWOS.  177 


Then  they  see  the  garden-gates ! 
Never  skies  so  blue  as  theirs, 
Never  flowers  so  many-sweet 
As  for  those  who  come  in  pairs. 

Round  and  round  the  alleys  wind : 
Now  a  cradle  bars  their  way, 
Now  a  little  mound,  behind,  — 
So  the  two  go  through  the  day. 

When  no  nook  in  all  the  lanes 
But  has  heard  a  song  or  sigh, 
Lo !  another  garden-gate 
Opens  as  the  two  go  by ! 

In  they  wander,  knowing  not : 
"  Five  and  Twenty  ! "  fills  the  air 
With  a  silvery  echo  low, 
All  about  the  startled  pair. 

Happier  yet  these  garden-walks ; 
Closer,  heart  to  heart,  they  lean ; 
Stiller,  softer  falls  the  light ; 
Few  the  twos,  and  far  between. 

Till,  at  last,  as  on  they  pass 
Down  the  paths  so  well  they  know 
Once  again  at  hidden  gates 
Stand  the  two :  they  enter  slow. 

12 


OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

Golden  gates  of  Fifty  Years, 
May  our  two  your  latchet  press ! 
Garden  of  the  Sunset  Land, 
Hold  their  dearest  happiness. 

Then  a  quiet  walk  again  : 
Then  a  wicket  in  the  wall ; 
Then  one,  stepping  on  alone,  — 
Then  two  at  the  Heart  of  All ! 


WILLIAM  C.  GANNETT. 


THE   OLD   MAN   DREAMS. 

OFOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring ! 
I  'd  rather  laugh,  a  bright-haired  boy, 
Than  reign,  a  gray-beard  king. 

Off  with  the  spoils  of  wrinkled  age ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame  1 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

"Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind! 

Without  thee  what  were  life  ? 
One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  precious  —  wife ! 

The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew ; 

"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too ! " 


"  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid, 
Before  the  change  appears  ? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years." 

"  Why,  yes,  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all  — 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys." 


l8O  OUT  OF  THE  HEART. 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen, 

"  Why  this  will  never  do ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too ! " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 
The  household  with  its  noise, — 

And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 
To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 


THE   DAISY  FOLLOWS   SOFT  THE  SUN. 

THE  daisy  follows  soft  the  sun, 
And  when  his  golden  walk  is  done, 
Sits  shyly  at  his  feet 
He,  waking,  finds  the  flower  near. 
"  Wherefore,  marauder,  art  thou  here  ?  " 
"  Because,  sir,  love  is  sweet ! " 

We  are  the  flower,  Thou  the  sun ! 
Forgive  us,  if  as  days  decline, 

We  nearer  steal  to  Thee, 
Enamoured  of  the  parting  west, 
The  peace,  the  flight,  the  amethyst, 

Night's  possibility ! 

EMILY  DICKINSON. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES. 


PAG* 

A  bit  of  ground,  a  smell  of  earth 173 

About  my  Darling's  lovely  eyes 42 

A  face  of  a  summer  ago 38 

Ah !  I  remember  well,  and  how  can  I 31 

Ah!  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love 115 

All  that  I  know 35 

All  the  breath  and  the  bloom  of  the  year  in  the  bag  of  one  bee  2 

All  unconscious  I  beheld  her .  37 

Although  I  enter  not 8 

And  at  night  the  septette  of  Beethoven 153 

And  how  could  you  dream  of  meeting  ?       . 92 

And  on  her  lover's  arm  she  leant 123 

A  picture-frame  for  you  to  fill 91 

A  ruddy  drop  of  manly  blood 165 

A  simple  ring  with  a  single  stone 29 

As  I  sat  by  my  study  table 140 

Ask  me  no  more :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea 44 

As  unto  blowing  roses  summer  dews 7 

A  week  ago  ;  and  I  am  almost  glad 47 

A  young  wife  stood  at  the  lattice-pane 127 

Baby  mine,  with  the  grave,  grave  face 149 

Because  we  once  drove  together 78 

Be  happy  now  with  him,  and  love  him  who  loves  thee       .     .  119 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 143 

By  a  clear  well,  within  a  little  field 40 


1 82  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGB 

Darling,  he  said,  I  never  meant 125 

Dawn  lingers  silent  in  the  shade  of  night 137 

Dimpled  and  flushed  and  dewy  pink  he  lies 137 

Do  not  write.    I  am  sad,  and  would  my  life  were  o'er       .    .  112 

Do  you  remember  that  most  perfect  night  .......  24 

Each  man's  chimney  is  his  golden  mile-stone 152 

Escape  me? 22 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 73 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring 4 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 71 

Gentle  severity,  repulses  mild 74 

God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 106 

Go  from  me.    Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 59 

Good-night !  I  have  to  say  good-night 10 

Had  I  but  earlier  known  that  from  the  eyes 84 

Have  you  got  a  brook  in  your  little  heart 51 

He  gather'd  blue  forget-me-nots 34 

Here,  a  little  child,  I  stand 143 

Here 's  the  garden  she  walked  across 84 

Her  father  loved  me ;  oft  invited  me 107 

Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 75 

He  who  loves  truly,  grows  in  force  and  might 104 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways 57 

How  many  new  years  have  grown  old 32 

How  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 44 

How  oft,  when  thou,  my  music,  music  play'st 19 

How  strange  a  thing  a  lover  seems no 

How  sweet  it  were,  if  without  feeble  fright 119 

How  your  sweet  face  revives  again 95 

I  am  not  a  prosperous  man 150 

I  cannot  choose  but  think  upon  the  time 162 

I  could  not  bear  to  see  those  eyes 13 

I  count  my  times  by  times  that  I  meet  thee 4 

If  by  any  device  or  knowledge 152 

If  I  had  an  eagle's  wings 142 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning 125 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  183 

PACK 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 8 

If  I  were  your  little  baby 27 

If  on  the  clustering  curls  of  thy  dark  hair 93 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 103 

If  you  were  coming  in  the  fall 69 

I  had  no  time  to  hate,  because 99 

I  know  full  well  what  saith  Saint  Paul 133 

In  a  drear-nighted  December 18 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours 107 

In  the  day  the  sun  is  darkened 106 

In  the  year  that 's  come  and  gone,  love 57 

I  thought  it  meant  all  glad  ecstatic  things 15 

It  is  the  season  now  to  go 54 

It  must  be  right  sometimes  to  entertain 88 

I  too  have  suffered.     Yet  I  know      .........  165 

I  waited  in  the  little  sunny  room 64 

I  wandered  by  the  brook-side 87 

I  said:  My  heart,  now  let  us  sing  a  song 122 

I  said  to  Lettice,  our  sister  Lettice 105 

I  will  not  let  you  say  a  woman's  part 100 

I  wish  I  could  remember  that  first  day 8 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 98 

Jess  and  Jill  are  pretty  girls 55 

Keep  your  undrest,  familiar  style •    .    .  94 

Kissing  her  hair,  I  sat  against  her  feet 45 

Last  night  in  blue  my  little  love  was  dressed 61 

Last  night,  my  darling,  as  you  slept 139 

Laura,  my  darling,  the  roses  have  blushed      .     .     .    .    .    .  156 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 86 

Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine.     True  wife      ....  141 

Look  up,  and  let  thy  nature  strike  on  mine 22 

"  Look  up,"  she  said ;  and  all  the  heavens  blazed     ....  20 

Love  me  not,  Love,  for  that  I  first  loved  thee 70 

My  child  is  lying  on  my  knee 150 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray .  93 

My  lady  carries  love  within  her  eyes 49 


1 84  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

My  little  love  sits  in  the  shade 50 

My  little  son,  who  looked  from  thoughtful  eyes 145 

My  love  for  thee  doth  march  like  armed  men        56 

My  pretty  budding,  breathing  flower 130 

My  true  love  hath  my  heart  and  I  have  his 53 

Not  from  the  whole  wide  world  I  chose  thee 16 

Not  in  this  world  to  see  his  face 114 

Now  the  rite  is  duly  done 121 

O  for  one  hour  of  youthful  joy! 178 

Oh,  did  you  see  him  riding  down 25 

Oh,  Love  is  not  a  summer  mood i 

O  how  my  heart  is  beating  as  her  name  I  keep  repeating   .     .  52 

O  kisse,  which  doest  those  ruddie  gemmes  impart    ....  20 

One  kiss  from  all  others  prevents  me 62 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 46 

Only  a  shelter  for  my  head  I  sought 5 

Opening  one  day  a  book  of  mine 71 

Others  may  need  new  life  in  Heaven 113 

O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long 115 

Play  it  slowly,  sing  it  lowly 158 

Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin 33 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls 14 

Room  after  room 23 

She  flushed  and  paled,  and,  bridling,  raised  her  head    ...  39 

She  hung  the  cage  at  the  window 62 

She  passed  up  the  aisle  on  the  arm  of  her  sire 64 

She  sauntered  by  the  swinging  seas 60 

She  seemed  an  angel  to  our  infant  eyes  ! 147 

She  stood  breast-high  amid  the  corn 43 

Since  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and  part!    ....  99 

So  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 68 

Some  day,  some  day  of  days,  threading  the  street    ....  109 

Somewhere  in  the  world  there  hide 176 

Stay,  stay  at  home,  my  heart  and  rest 128 

Still  on  the  tower  stood  the  vane 96 

Summer  is  coming,  summer  is  coming 66 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES.  185 

PACK 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 91 

The  conference  meeting  through  at  last 80 

The  daisy  follows  soft  the  sun 180 

The  fountains  smoke,  and  yet  no  flames  they  show       ...  17 

The  glow  and  the  glory  are  plighted n 

The  holiest  of  all  holidays  are  those       159 

The  letter  which  you  wrote  me 39 

The  love  wherewith  my  heart  is  big  for  thee 41 

The  moth's  kiss  first ! 21 

The  nightingale  has  a  lyre  of  gold 55 

The  sense  of  the  world  is  short I 

The  sunlight  fills  the  trembling  air 160 

There  is  no  friend  like  a  sister 161 

There  's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she  's  so  purer  than  the 

purest 73 

The  winds  are  whispering  over  the  sea 138 

The  woman's  cause  is  man's :  they  rise  or  sink 16 

They  gave  the  whole  long  day  to  idle  laughter 82 

They  walked  together,  in  the  dusk 30 

This  is  the  house  she  was  born  in,  full  four-score  years  ago   .  170 

Thou  art  so  very  sweet  and  fair 61 

'T  is  sweeter  than  all  else  below 90 

To  heroism  and  holiness 6 

Toys  and  treats  and  pleasures  pass 148 

'T  was  April ;  't  was  Sunday  ;  the  day  was  fair 102 

Twice  had  the  changing  seasons  run  their  round      ....  58 

Two  lovers  by  a  moss-grown  spring 175 

Two  roses  growing  on  a  single  tree 120 

Under  the  coverlet's  snowy  fold 128 

Upon  her  snowy  couch  she  drooping  lies 133 

Us  two  wuz  boys  when  we  fell  out 167 

Warmed  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her  hair 65 

Weary  with  toil,  I  haste  me  to  my  bed       89 

We  chose  our  blossoms,  sitting  on  the  grass 66 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain       40 

What  were  the  whole  void  world,  if  thou  wert  dead     ...  89 


1 86  INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PACK 

Whenas  in  silk  my  Julia  goes 96 

When  daffodils  began  to  blow 28 

When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 31 

When  she  comes  home  again  1  a  thousand  ways 1 24 

When  the  end  comes,  and  we  must  say  good-by 162 

When  you  are  old,  and  I  am  passed  away 103 

Which  shall  it  be  ?  Which  shall  it  be 153 

Why  ask  of  others  what  they  cannot  say 46 

With  strawberries  we  filled  a  tray 3 

Wondrous  interlacement ! 146 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng 36 

Would  you  know  the  baby's  skies? 132 

Yea,  let  me  praise  my  lady  whom  I  love 113 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  Jong  fresh  grass n 

Your  house  is  built  on  holy  ground 168 

Your  picture  smiles  as  first  it  smiled 25 

You  sleep  upon  your  mother's  breast 135 


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